Off Duty
by Vhetin1138
Summary: A collection of short stories involving daily life in Keldabe, featuring appearances from Vhetin, Jay, and many other characters. Meant as a companion piece to my White Snow stories. Rated T for language and possibly some violence.
1. Vhetin and Janada (Post-Contention)

**Shortly after the events of ****_White Snow: Contention_**

"You sure you're up to this?"

Vhetin nodded, his face a mask of grim determination. "I can do this. Just give me space."

Janada took a step back and said, "Take it slow. Whenever you're ready."

He pursed his lips, then slowly clenched his hands into fists. He grimaced against the pain, but held the position. Janada could see his hands shaking, could see the sweat beginning to bead along his forehead. She raised a hand and said, "All right, little bro. I think that's enough. Don't want to go too far too fast."

He quickly relaxed his hands, letting out a short gasp. He cursed quietly and sighed, "It's been a whole damn week already and I still can't close a fist without my _shabla _skin burning."

"You're doing better," she pointed out. "Three days ago you could barely move your fingers at all."

"But it's not good enough!" he hissed, staring at his bright red palms. In the week since the fight in the sewers, the bounty hunter's hands had become severely inflamed from radiation, the skin warping and turning a bright, livid red. He'd finally gotten the bandages off a day previous, but his hands were still highly sensitive and prone to stinging at the slightest provocation.

Janada wasn't too proud to admit that it hurt to see her little brother in such a state. Vhetin was always tough and confident, always rebounding from his injuries with almost unnatural speed and vigor. But this was different. The radiation poisoning had thankfully been caught in time to negate the worst damage, but there was still the issue of his pseudo-pneumonia virus that the Imperials had given him. The sickness seemed to come and go, but it was sticking with him like a son of a bitch.

Janada had overhead some of the doctors talking among themselves about transferring him to a medcenter on Coruscant, one qualified enough to deal with such afflictions. She had quickly stepped in and threatened to break their precious operating hands if they went through with such a plan; transferring Cin to Imperial City would just get him caught again that much faster.

Vhetin lay back against his hospital cot with a sigh. "How am I supposed to use my saber pike if I can't even close my hands?"

"It'll get better," Janada reassured him. "The _baar'ure_ are optimistic you'll have a full recovery."

"Yes, but how long is it going to take?"

"You should count yourself lucky there's a treatment at all," Janada said. "If it was fifteen years ago, Keldabe wouldn't have had a medcenter qualified to treat you. They would've had to amputate your hands to keep the radiation from killing you."

Vhetin scoffed. "One thing the Empire's done for us, at least."

Janada rolled her eyes. "Has anyone ever told you how bitter you get when you're hurt, _vod_? You may act like some big tough bounty hunter, but you're kind of a baby."

He shook his head. "I'm just not the kind of guy who likes sitting around on his ass all the time."

She laughed. "You almost died. I'm sure they'll forgive you for taking a bit of a break."

"Kriff that," Vhetin sighed, resting his raw hands over his chest. "Get me back out there with a gun in my hands. I can't stand laying around like this."

Janada grinned, but let the matter rest. She settled herself into the bedside seat and folded one leg over her knee. She had refused to leave her brother's side since he'd been admitted. She was sure he found it at least a little annoying, but refused to let him out of her sight regardless. He'd already been kidnapped by the Imps for months on end; she wasn't going to let him get into any more trouble without her there to either hold him back or join in.

Still, she couldn't just sit around and watch her brother sleep. It was boring and she wouldn't stand for it. She decided to rile things up.

"So…" she said slowly, a knowing grin tugging at her lips. "I've noticed you getting all chummy with that woman who changes your bandages."

Vhetin opened one eye. "Nurse Vachiira? What's it matter to you?"

"She's cute."

He sighed and closed the eye. "_Te Manda_ save me. Don't start."

"The fact you let her walk in here without your helmet _or_ that kriffing mask tells me _you_ think she's cute too."

He shook his head and pretended to be falling asleep. "Who I find cute is none of your _shabla_ business, Janada."

"When're you going to ask her out?"

"I didn't plan on ever doing it."

"Oh come on," she sighed, slapping her thighs for emphasis. "Your partner's got a new boyfriend, your ex has a new boyfriend, word from the south is that Tamai's got a new girlfriend… You're falling behind the curve, little bro. It's time you got a girl too."

He opened his eyes. "And you think Nurse Vachiira is a good place to start?"

Janada shrugged. "Wouldn't hurt to get a contact inside a well-stocked and well-funded medcenter. You certainly can't keep relying on Rame all the time to patch you up."

He chuckled. "I don't know about your relationship with Verdo, but I don't find people attractive based solely on their usefulness to my career."

Janada shrugged. "Your loss. I guess there's always the Echani to chase after."

Vhetin's eyes opened again. "Seriously? You're going to go there?"

"I don't see why not," she shot back with a grin. "Long as you're feeling up for a fight."

He shook his head. "She just offered to train me. That's all."

"We Mandos have found worse excuses to cover up some good ol' hanky-panky."

He groaned and put a hand to his forehead, then grimaced when he irritated his burns again. "I cannot believe you just said that. You're ridiculous."

"And you love it," she said. There wasn't much for her to do other while waiting for him to recuperate other than torment him.

There was a buzz from the door and none other than Nurse Vachiira stepped in, brushing a wayward strand of raven-black hair from her pretty blue eyes. Janada glanced over at her brother and bounced her eyebrows suggestively. He responded with a well-worn Mandalorian hand gesture that made her throw her head back in laughter.

"Sorry to interrupt," the nurse said, "but Cin's up for another round of radiotherapy. Hope you didn't have a big breakfast."

Reluctantly, Janada stood and brushed her hands off. "Okay. I'll leave you to it, Stripes. I'll see you around noon? I'll bring you a nice take-out lunch from the _Oyu'baat_."

Vhetin pulled a face. "I think after radiotherapy, I'm going to need it."

Janada nodded and headed for the door. She paused next to Nurse Vachiira and leaned close, murmuring, "From what I've heard, your patient is a _great_ kisser. Just food for thought."

Then she walked out. As the door swung shut behind her, she heard Vhetin sigh in exasperation and mutter, "Ignore her."

Then she grinned and headed further down the hall.


	2. Cyborg Babysitter

**Keldabe City Medcenter, five days after the events of ****_White Snow: Contention_**

Denton shifted in his bed, fidgeting uncomfortably. "So… a Niordi, huh?"

There was a heavy rumbling in response, then D'harhan droned, "_YES. I WAS ONCE OF THE NIORDI PEOPLES._"

"I… haven't heard much about your culture."

"_FEW HAVE_," the cyborg said in his dead, mechanical voice. "_MY PEOPLE LIVED BEYOND THE OUTER RIM, FAR FROM THE REACH OF YOUR WORLDS. WHEN WE WERE DISCOVERED DECADES AGO, MANY OF MY KIND WERE SLAUGHTERED. I AM ONE OF THE LAST REMAINING."_

Denton began fidgeting even more. "Right… forget I asked."

The sat in silence for a long time, D'harhan seemingly content to simply stare at him with his dead, mechanical photoreceptors. Panels and plates spread across his powered-down cannon shifted and clanked quietly in time with the heavy metallic rasping that was the alien's breath. His long, segmented tail scraped back and forth across the sterilized tile of the medcenter room.

Denton cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, um… as much as I appreciate visitors, big guy… why exactly are you here?"

"_PENANCE_," was all the massive alien would say.

"Right. Well the staff had to haul you up here in the freight elevator because you're too big to fit through the main doors. That seems like a lot of effort for _penance_."

"_I HAVE CAUSED GREAT HARM IN RECENT DAYS_," D'harhan explained, his cannon letting out a heavy warble as he spoke. "_I WISH TO NOW SPREAD GOOD TO COUNTERACT THAT."_

"That's great and all, but why are you _here_?"

"_YOUR MATE, THE DARK-HAIRED FLESHLING_," D'harhan said. "_SHE SAID YOU WERE BEING HOUSED HERE. RECUPERATING FROM WOUNDS I INFLICTED. SHE CLAIMED IT WOULD SPEED YOUR RECOVERY IF YOU HAD COMPANY_."

Denton groaned and looked over at Vhetin, in the bed across the room. "_Te manda _save me. Jay's doing this on purpose."

The bounty hunter laughed as he carefully worked on a handheld datapad; his hands were bound tightly with medical bandages, restricting his movements. "I'm not sure what complaining to me about it will do for you."

"Can't you talk to her? She's your partner."

He laughed again. "You're the one who felt brave enough to start dating her. You have to deal with her now."

"Great," Denton said, rubbing his forehead. "I ask out an attractive brunette and end up being baby-sat by a cyborg death machine."

"All in a day's work for us _beroya_s," Vhetin said, focusing again on his datapad. "You might want to get used to it if you're serious about Jay."

"Can I expect you to be the best man at our wedding too?" Denton asked the hulking cyborg sitting next to him. "Or be the godfather to our first kid?"

"_I HAVE LITTLE EXPERIENCE WITH FLESHLING JOINING RITUALS_," D'harhan replied. "_NOR DO I CARE MUCH FOR CHILD CARE. REGARDLESS, IT IS MY UNDERSTANDING THAT SUCH THINGS REQUIRE INTERACTION FOR LONGER THAN A FEW MONTHS_."

Vhetin burst out laughing again. "Wow. He somehow manages to miss the point entirely, but ends up more sarcastic than Janada. I never thought I'd see the day."

D'harhan's gigantic cannon swiveled to face him. "_REMAIN SILENT. I HAVE DEBTS TO PAY TO THE GOLD-ARMORED FLESHLING, BUT NONE THAT I EXTEND TO YOU, TINY ONE_."

"And why is that?"

"_WHILE I CAUSED GREAT HARM TO MANY THROUGHOUT THIS CITY, I DID NOT ACT AGGRESSIVELY TOWARD YOU. YET YOU PURSUED AND ATTACKED ME AT EVERY OPPORTUNITY_. _I DO NOT CONDONE SUCH ACTION._"

"You threw a car at me."

"Technically," Denton said, "he just drove the speeder off the road. It wasn't his fault you were standing in the way."

Vhetin shook his head. "I don't care. When two tons of durasteel and plastoid gets chucked at my face, I'm not that concerned with the intentions of the ones responsible."

"_AND YET YOU LIVE_," D'harhan rumbled. The cyborg turned away, the status lights on his massive head-cannon pulsing dangerously. "_MANY IN RECENT DAYS CANNOT CLAIM THE SAME DUE TO ACTIONS TAKEN BY THE BOTH OF US_."

Vhetin instantly fell silent and Denton cringed. "Probably a little too soon for stuff like that, big guy. Why don't we change the subject?"

"_I WOULD ADVICE CEASING CONVERSATION COMPLETELY_," the cyborg said. "_YOUR FLESHLING BIOLOGY IS FRAGILE. IT REQUIRES TIME AND REST TO MEND. AND YOU ARE GETTING NEITHER WHILE ARGUING SEMANTICS WITH ME_."

"Okay, okay," Denton said. "I'll get some rest. Just… could you stop staring at me? It's kind of creepy."

All at once, the status lights scattered around D'harhan's implants blinked out. "_I HAVE DISABLED MY CYBERNETIC PHOTORECEPTORS. WILL THAT SUFFICE?_"

Denton sighed. "I guess it'll have to."

"_GOOD. THEN REST. NOW."_

He rolled over, ignoring Vhetin's smirk from across the room, and muttered again, "_Te manda_ save me."

Jay was definitely going to pay for this.


	3. Meditation and Thoughts of Home

3

**_Oyu'baat _tapcaf, three days after the events of _White Snow: Contention_**

"Hey there."

The Handmaiden's pale blue eyes snapped open and she let out a soft gasp, shaken from her meditation. All at once, the sights, sounds, and smells of the overcrowded tapcaf came flooding back to her, grinding against her senses even from her position on the floor above the bar.

She glared at the newcomer and said, "I was not expecting visitors."

Jay stopped short and cursed quietly. "I'm sorry. You were meditating, weren't you?"

"I was," said the Handmaiden. "But please, continue. I would not turn away conversation."

Jay held a mug of dark-colored liquid in each hand. "I figured you would want something to help unwind. You deserve it as much as the rest of us."

The Handmaiden winced only slightly as she rose to her feet again, a sharp twinge of pain shooting up her side. A few choice bacta injections had tended most of her wounds, including her painfully broken nose, but it was still difficult to walk without pain.

Jay held out one of the tankards, but the Handmaiden shook her head, drawing her hood back over her bleached white hair and throwing her eyes into shadow. "I appreciate the offer, Jaimie, but I must pass."

"Weak stomach?"

She flashed the other woman a rare smile. "More a personal preference. I do not drink, whether the brew is Mandalorian or Echani. I take pride in maintaining a sharp mind, and alcohol does not contribute to that goal."

"Noble of you," Jay said, taking a seat at a nearby table. "I hope you don't mind if I take yours, then."

"By all means." The Handmaiden said. She picked up her quarterstaff from the floor next to her and inspected the pommel before clipping it to her belt. "What news do you bring?"

Jay shrugged as she took a quick swig of her drink. She grimaced and said, "Cin's still in the medcenter and will stay there for the foreseeable future. Janada's keeping an eye on him, so at least he's not cooped up there alone."

"The red-armored Mandalorian?" the Handmaiden said. "I must admit I have little experience with her. I get the feeling she did think very highly of me."

"That's just Janada, I think. I got the same feeling when I met her. She seems a little distrustful of strangers."

"A healthy attitude," she settled herself down in the chair opposite the human. "Particularly given our profession."

She crossed her legs and settled back into a more comfortable position. "How does the Mandalorian fare?"

"Cin? He's doing fine. Irritated more than anything else. He wants to get out and get back to the way things were."

"Understandable. What of the other? Your bondmate?"

"Bondmate?"

The Handmaiden paused, searching for the right words. "Ugh, you foreigners do not state things the same as the Echani… your word… boy-friend?"

"Oh, Denton? He's fine. The doctors should let him out in a few days. Sounds like he's eager to get back to work."

"Commendable," the Handmaiden said. She pursed her lips. "I must admit, some of my preconceptions about Mandalorians have proven to be incorrect. It is… disconcerting."

Jay laughed as she took another sip of her strong brew. "I thought the exact same thing when I first got here. We outsiders don't have a very high opinion of Mandalorians. I think we treat them a little unfairly."

"Perhaps. Or perhaps we have simply seen the best this culture has to offer."

"I think Cin would argue that he's far from the best Mandos have to offer."

"That aside, I do not wish to lower my guard around these brutes. They have altered my opinion, not changed it entirely."

Jay shrugged. "I'm sure you'll come around eventually. We _aruetiise_ always seem to."

The Handmaiden narrowed her ice-blue eyes. "It worries me that you use their colloquialisms so casually, Jaimie. I am starting to believe you are getting too close to them."

"Is that a problem?"

"If you wish to retain your individuality, yes. Mandalorians have a strange talent for influencing the minds of their allies. I would not like to see you drawn into their fold."

Jay smiled. "I appreciate the thought, Les, but I don't have a problem with Mandalorians like you do. Besides, I have no intention of converting any time soon. Their lives are too… harsh for me. A little too much is expected of them for me to be comfortable."

The Handmaiden cocked her head. "I'm not sure you would enjoy an Echani's life either, in that case."

"Probably not."

"I can say with certainty that life is far harsher on Eshan than it is here on Mandalore," she explained. "The very nature of our planet's environment demands it."

Jay listened intently. "I haven't heard much about Eshan. What's it like?"

"It is a hostile, frigid world, all tall mountain peaks and barren ice plains. It has been compared to more well-known planets such as Mygeeto or Rhen Var, but far less livable. My people were the planet's native inhabitants, and have grown resistant to the snows as a result."

"Sounds awful," Jay said, frowning. "Then again, I hate the cold. No offense."

The corner of the Handmaiden's mouth quirked up. "It is a difficult life, to be sure. But there is beauty in the savagery of the snows, a beauty that I have yet to find anywhere else in the galaxy."

Unbidden, her eyes closed and she pictured her homeworld in her mind's eye. "Nowhere else have I stood on the peaks of mountains and looked out across a sea of endless, unmarked snow. Nowhere else have I felt the frigid breeze of the arctic winds upon my face, felt the icy tug of winter at my fingertips. There are peaks on Eshan that stretch above the clouds. You can stare down from atop them and see nothing but mist stretching as far as the eye can see, into the indefinite blue of the horizon. It is… quite indescribable."

She opened her eyes again and found Jay smiling at her. "Has anyone ever told you that you would make a good poet?"

The Handmaiden quickly shook her head, tilting her hood down so Jay could not see her blush. She should not have gotten so caught up in memories of her home. They were... distracting. "That is not the life I was born to. I would not thrive under such circumstance."

"Still," Jay said, taking another swig of her drink, "you have a way with words, Les. I would like to see what you've seen. That peaceful kind of solitude."

"You misunderstand. There is little solitude among the Echani, and even less peace. The danger of our environment drives us to band together for survival. We grow very close to our fellows or we do not survive the snow. There is no middle ground."

"It was similar for us in the navy," Jay said. "We had to work as a cohesive unit of soldiers, whether we got along as normal people or not. After a while, you grew close to other people regardless of who they were."

"Yet from my research, there are very strict limitations placed upon you. You are never allowed to stray from the bond between commander and soldier, and there are no bondmates allowed within military units. I find this... curious."

"Do the Echani treat it differently?"

The Handmaiden nodded. "We do. Relationships are no matter for concern among our fighting forces."

"But doesn't that create a conflict of interests? People will care about their significant other more than following orders."

The Handmaiden folded her hands in her lap and fixed Jay with a strict stare. "Echani are above such concerns. We are taught from our earliest days that our ultimate loyalty is to our people. No one person, no matter how much they are loved, are more important than the entirety of the Echani."

"But what if… I don't know, what if someone had to make a choice between following orders and saving the life of their-"

The Handmaiden interrupted her, her voice leaving no room for argument. "They would follow their orders. It is not a debate, and it is not a choice. Those who disobey their commands for personal benefit of any kind, no matter how noble, are condemned to imprisonment or – more commonly – death."

Jay looked horrified. "That's awful. How can you go along with something like that?"

The Handmaiden shrugged. "It is what is expected of us. When you live under such a belief for the entirety of your life, it does not seem like such a weighty request. We Echani do what is necessary for our people to survive. We cannot place the needs of a minority over the needs of the entirety."

"Well…"

"I do not ask you to share this belief," the Handmaiden said. "It is merely the belief I was raised to follow."

"And did you ever… have a bondmate? In the military, I mean."

"A very personal question," the Handmaiden said with a small smile. "I did not know you cared."

"You're my friend," Jay said. "I just want to get to know you better."

_Friend…_ The Handmaiden had to admit it had been a long time since anyone could claim such. Her last friends had been those in the Echani military, but they had been gone for years. It seemed like a lifetime ago, so long she couldn't quite remember how to react.

_There is no malice in her intentions_, she thought. _What harm would come from speaking of my past?_

Jay seemed to understand her indecision. She smiled and said, "You… don't have many people around who care for you, do you?"

The Handmaiden shook her hooded head. "I do not. Not anymore. The life of an Echani warrior is a lonely one. That of an exile even more so. The necessary dedication to tradition and self-improvement rarely leaves time for other things, relationships included."

She stared at the tabletop. "I did, however… on occasion… reach out to others. I had a bondmate once. Long ago. It was… a happier time."

"Did he have a name?"

She let out a soft chuckle. "Jeneria."

"But that's a… oh."

The Handmaiden smiled sadly at the other woman's surprise. "You disapprove."

"No! No, no, I just didn't expect—"

"Among the Echani, men are often seen as inferior to their female counterparts," the Handmaiden explained. "We are very much a matriarchal society. And while males are needed for procreation, it is seen as more socially desirable to take a bondmate of the same or similar level of prestige. We have long since done away with the petty hatreds and discrimination shared by many foreigners."

"Ah. I didn't know your relationships were so, um… clinical."

"You misunderstand. I cared for Jeneria as much as you now care for your Justice-Dealer bondmate. There was nothing clinical about our bond. But… I sometimes wish there had been."

Jay cocked her head to one side. "Why?"

"She…" the Handmaiden hesitated. "She died. During a deployment almost a month before my exile. Felled in combat. By a Mandalorian."

Jay gasped slightly and covered her mouth in shock. "Les… I'm so sorry. I had no idea."

"My hatred for these so-called _Sons of Mandalore _goes far beyond petty jealousy," she said, focusing intently on her black leather gloves. She clenched one hand into a fist. "I lost much that day. But… nothing quite as painful as that. It was a difficult time."

Jay stared down at her drink, as if she had suddenly lost her desire for it. After a while she cleared her throat and said, "I know it doesn't help, but… well, I know how you feel."

The Echani glanced up at the human. "You do?"

Jay nodded. "I do. My ex-boyfriend, Sade, was killed in action over Malachor Five. When I returned to the fleet to ask for reinforcements, they claimed I was a spy and threw me in prison."

The Handmaiden stared at her, blue eyes holding brown. Then she bowed her head and said, "I did not know. I am saddened by your loss."

"Thanks," Jay murmured. "Same for you."

They sat in silence for a long time before Jay glanced up at her and said, "So what was she like? Jeneria, I mean."

The Handmaiden hesitated. It had been a long time since she had spoken of Jeneria. It was difficult to return to those memories now. Eventually she licked her dry lips and said, "She was kind. And just. She had a great love of dance, something that was not generally valued in Echani life. She was a skilled freerunner, and could outperform all her fellows, myself included. But most of all she was… full of life. She woke every day believing there would be some new adventure to throw herself into, and very often took me along with her."

She smiled a little. "When paired with such enthusiasm, such a bright and beautiful candle… it is difficult to stop oneself from growing to love the light the other sheds. Her mere presence soothed the spirit, and made me believe…"

She stopped, a sudden heaviness descending over her chest. She sucked in a short breath and said, "Her love of life was a trait I sadly lacked. I was never quite so luminous as she was. And I… I miss that."

She cleared her throat and said, "But now I will speak no more of this. It is still very much a painful memory."

Jay nodded. "All right."

They sat in silence before Jay sighed and pushed the other mug of alcohol across the table toward her. She then stood from her chair, taking her own cup with her. "Just… in case you change your mind."

The Handmaiden bowed her head in thanks, but said nothing. Jay stared at her, pausing before murmuring, "Les… I don't know why you decided to come with me to Keldabe, but I'm glad you did. You're a good woman. But these Mandalorians can be good people to. I hope they manage to change your mind about them."

Then she turned and left the room, letting the heavy wooden door swing shut behind her. The Handmaiden watched her go, then looked down at the drink in front of her and murmured, "Deep down… I believe I hope so too."

Then she returned to her earlier seat on the floor, took a deep breath, and resumed her meditation.


	4. Meet Tamai

4

**Equatorial Mandalorian Frontier, ten days after the events of ****_White Snow: Contention_**

The blue-armored woman leaped down from the rooftop, tackling the hefty raider commando around the shoulders and driving them both to the ground. The man grunted and tried to shake her off, but a well-placed punch to the back of the neck quickly stopped him. She jabbed him under the armpit with her gauntlet-mounted stun prod just to be sure he wouldn't get up again. He twitched for a few seconds, then fell still.

She rolled off the armored man and leaped to her feet, throwing the fabric of her poncho over her shoulder to free her blaster arm. She drew her weapon and aimed at another man charging at her, wearing the distinctive dirty black/red armor of the local raider band. She snapped off a shot, hitting him in the shoulder with a high-powered stun bolt. He staggered and fell, just in time for her to drive her knee plate into his helmet. He crumpled backward.

Without pausing for breath, she spun and drew her other sidearm, aiming both down the main street and opening up on another pair charging at her from behind. She was too late, however, and the commandos quickly overwhelmed her position, causing her to duck under a few furious blows that would have knocked her off her feet.

She straightened and slammed the heel of one boot against the back of one man's knee, sending him stumbling off balance. The other man she shot at point-blank range with a barrage of blue-white blaster fire that made him collapse like a sack of grassgrain.

The other raider had regained his balance and charged her again, but she easily ducked his blow. She straightened and landed a devastating punch to his unarmored ribcage, making him shout and double up from pain. She finished him off with a quick kick to the side of the knee, easily dislocating the joint and sending him crashing to the ground. A single bolt to the chest was enough to put him out for good.

She checked her HUD chronometer; just over a minute-thirty. Not bad, but she knew from experience she could do better. Maybe next time.

She turned back to the other raiders gathered around her, her pistols aimed at the ground. "Anyone else?" she called to them. There were maybe ten of them; too many to take in a single fight, but if they were all as clumsy as the first four, they wouldn't pose that much of a problem if she managed to split them up.

When they didn't answer she spread her arms and shouted, "Anyone else want to give it a shot?"

Still they remained silent. She scowled behind her helmet. "Your weapons are gone. Your leaders are gone. Your best fighters are lying ass-up on the ground around me. You've got nowhere left to go."

The blue-armored woman paused, then holstered her pistols. "You have two options facing you _dar'manda _idiots: first, you can surrender yourselves to the Rangers and you'll be shown leniency. You'll join our ranks and travel to Fort Garfier for training. If not… well, the punishment for turning against your fellow Mandalorians is death. Effective immediately."

The raiders glanced between themselves. She could almost hear them murmuring to each other over their helmet comms, casting her fearful looks behind their tinted black T-visors. She knew their resolve was weak; after she'd taken out the gang leader and their commandos, the rest of the grunts would inevitably fold under the scrutiny of a strong-willed opponent.

Ranger training 101: divide and conquer.

"Well?" she shouted. "What's your choice?"

After a long moment of hesitation, one of the men slowly stepped forward, hands raised in surrender. "We… we don't want more trouble, miss. We surrender. Take us to the fort."

She stared at him, glad he couldn't see the wide smile stretching across her face, then pretended to nod stoically. She gestured down the street and said, "If that's the case, report to Ranger Igris. Green-yellow armor, you can't miss her. She'll restrain you asswipes and get you on a speeder heading for Fort Garfier for processing."

She gestured to the ground in front of her. "Your buckets; ditch them here. You don't deserve them anymore."

Humbly, the remaining troops began filing out, pulling off their helmets and dropping them at her feet. They glared balefully at her, but didn't raise any more of a fuss as a few of the local militia troops – who had silently watched her fight with the four commandos – escorted them to the other Rangers in the town.

She watched them go, then sighed and let her shoulders slump. It was an invigorating feeling, finishing up a job like this, but it was also exhausting. The sun was beating down on her and her suit's temp-control systems were acting up again. Her forehead was soaked with sweat and she was sure there were a few dark patches on her suit in some unflattering places. Nevertheless, she adjusted her rough blue-cloth poncho once again and headed over to the water barrel set up just outside the main trading post.

One of the locals – an _aruetii_ from the look of him - approached her as she walked. "That… that was amazing, ma'am."

"That was mostly for show," she admitted. "I had to show those bastards that there was someone out here scarier than their bosses. If that were real combat, it wouldn't have been so flashy."

"Still," the man said. "You have my thanks. And the thanks of the entire town."

She sighed as she pulled off her blue-gray helmet, revealing long blond hair that had come loose from its restrictive bun during the fight. She shook a few wayward strands from her face as she clipped the helmet to her belt.

"I don't deserve your thanks," she said. She grabbed a plastoid cup from a nearby stand and dipped it into the water barrel. After downing the entire cup in a few long gulps, she refilled it and poured it over her head. The ice-cold water was shocking, but still pleasant in the blazing heat. "It's my job to do stuff like this. It's nothing special."

"Still," the man said. "You've done more for us than any of those mercenaries we hired ever could. Thank you for that at least."

She sighed and downed another helping of cool, refreshing water. When she'd finished, she put the cup back and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. _He's a persistent bugger, I'll give him that_.

"Fine," she said. "You're welcome. Just remember that if your town ever gets hit by the raiders again, we may not be here to intervene."

"I understand. Your agents have been training the local farmhands well, and with the other Mandalorian workers we have here, we should have more than enough protection if we ever come under attack again."

"Good," she said. She jerked her head toward the center of town, where more _aruetiise_ farmers were gathering to watch the wrap-up of the Ranger's operation. "Then you should get back to your people. It looks like you've got some explaining to do."

He nodded and set off, leaving her alone for the moment. She took advantage of the short reprieve to turn back to the water barrel and submerge her head completely. When she emerged, water streaming down her face, she saw another Ranger, a young man in slate-gray armor, leaning against the trading post wall. He was smirking at her, arms folded across his chest.

"That's a good look for you," he said, nodding to her sopping wet hair.

She rolled her eyes and dunked her head again. When she emerged, she gasped at the cold water and said, "Remind me again why I signed up for the equator run? It's so kriffing _hot_."

"Good pay," the man said with a shrug. "Better action. The farms here are all overrun with bandits and raiders. Never any shortage of gunfights down here."

She sighed and brushed wet hair from her face. "Right. The glory run where we spend all our time and money protecting idiot _aruetiise_ from raiders who wouldn't know the pointy end of a _beskad_ if they sat on it. I love this job. Go team."

He laughed. "Come on, Tamai. You secretly love being the hero. Just think of it: Lady Tamai Vasser, the knight in shining armor who gallantly saves the inept foreigners from the ruthless villains come to steal their goats."

She snorted. "Would a _lady_ tell you to go kriff one of the farmer's goats?"

He pretended to wince in pain. "Oh Tamai, you _wound_ me."

"Then go kriff yourself while you're at it," she said, then turned to face a similarly blue-armored man walking toward her. As he drew near, she snapped off a crisp salute.

"Ranger-Commander Bor, sir!" she said. "The commandos have been dealt with, and the remaining raiders are being bundled off to the fort as we speak. I'd say this quadrant is clear, at least for the next few weeks."

The Ranger-Commander known affectionately as _The Boar_ was a tall, dark-skinned man in his mid-40s with more successful operations under his belt than many Supercommandos would ever see in their lifetime. A tangle of multicolored decorated combat ribbons hung from his shoulders and his belt, the tiny metal medallions at the ends clanking quietly as he moved. He looked around with narrowed brown eyes, taking in the various raiders splayed out in the street outside. He eventually nodded, looking impressed.

"Very good work, Ranger Vasser," he said. "And while I did suggest you wait for reinforcements—"

"They were taking too long, sir," she replied, while the gray-armored man behind her rolled his eyes.

"—I must commend you for your quick and decisive handling of the situation," The Boar finished. He nodded to her. "Good work."

"Thank you sir."

The Ranger-Commander took one last look at the raiders in the street, now being cuffed by more Ranger troops, then turned on his heel and called, "Let's go, people! We've got reports of Kalo wolf packs to the south! We're moving out in twenty!"

Tamai let her rigid military stance fall, while the gray-armored man stepped up next to her and spoke in a high-pitched, singsong voice, "The reinforcements were taking too long, sir," he said. "Yes, sir. No, sir. Can I like your boots, sir?"

She playfully swatted him upside the head. "Shut up, nerf-herder. Just admit it: the points for this one go to me."

He raised his hands in a placating gesture. "All right, all right. I should know not to try and compete with the best of us, Tamai. Just make sure to let someone else play the hero when we take on these Kalo wolves. It's been your turn for too long."

"It's not my fault I love my job," she shot back as the two headed back to the water barrel. It had only been a few minutes, but the heat had already parched her throat again. "In fact-"

She broke off when she noticed another Mandalorian jogging for her. Lightly armored, wearing brown armor and the _kyr'bes_ skull on his shoulder pad. A messenger from Keldabe, straight from the offices of the _Mand'alor_ himself.

Since the Rangers were so often on the move, switching from outpost to outpost across the Mandalorian frontier, comlink communication wasn't reliable. There were huge swaths of the Mandalorian wilderness that could not get comm reception, and the Rangers had since learned to work without the technology. As a result, special orders or messages from the _Mand'alor_ or the Supercommando army had to be relayed in person by messenger. It was slower, but the message was sure to reach the intended target.

But messengers were rarely sent unless there was an emergency. If it was a matter as simple as troop reassignment or a call to serve with the Protectors, the _Mand'alor_'s offices would wait until someone of sufficient rank had reported back to the nearest comm-capable Ranger outpost: in this case, Fort Garfier. The necessary Ranger coalition could be out of contact for weeks or even months on occasion, but they always eventually checked back in to their outposts. If someone had sent a runner personally, it must be big news.

"Uh-oh," the gray-armored man said, nodding to the messenger. "Looks like trouble."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "This better not be another message from Uncle Fenn. He's got to understand I'm working down here."

"Probably just worried about you. I'm not sure he liked it when you moved out of Keldabe."

"He's got other relatives he can pick on," she said. "Clan Shysa's a big family. He must get a kick out of annoying me."

He punched her shoulder affectionately. "Would that we all had _te Mand'alor _as the doting, overprotective _ba'vodu._ You love the attention, _vod_."

The messenger drew near enough to them and saluted quickly. But, to both their surprise, he wasn't looking for Tamai. The man held the salute and said, "_Su'cuy, _Rangers. Where can I find Ranger-Commander Bor?"

"_'Cuy, vod_," Tamai said with a frown. "What's wrong?"

"I need to speak to Ranger Bor. That's all I can say."

"I'm Ranger Vasser," she introduced herself. "One of the Ranger-Commander's top agents. This knothead behind me is Ranger Lee. We're authorized to hear any information you're here to deliver to him."

The messenger hesitated, then said, "Ten days ago, a Mandalorian terrorist by the name of Coro Caranthyr orchestrated a number of bombings throughout Keldabe. Hundreds were killed, many more injured."

Tamai almost dropped her cup. "_What?"_

"Holy kriff…" Lee murmured next to her.

The messenger nodded. "It was Caranthyr's intention to assassinate the _Mand'alor_, but he was ultimately unsuccessful. However, in response to the bombings, _Mand'alor _Shysa is recalling a number of Ranger teams and their commanders back to Keldabe for anti-terrorism training and reassignment."

"Reassignment?" Lee echoed. "But we're doing good work down here!"

"These orders come straight from Tobbi Dala himself," the messenger said. "The team sent to counteract Caranthyr and the bombings barely managed to stop him, and Caranthyr himself escaped in the end. Shysa wants to be prepared in the event of another attack. The Rangers will still focus on frontier defense, but also be called upon for anti-terrorism operations in major cities across the planet."

"Who were the poor sods assigned to track that _shabuir_ down?" Lee said. "I feel bad for them."

The messenger frowned, thinking hard. "There were a number of local law enforcement officers. Officer Denton Dral among them."

"Good man," Tamai said. "I've met him on occasion. Not surprised he'd spearhead a defensive like that."

"A few _aruetii_ auxiliaries as wel," the man continued. "A _beroya_ by the name of Moqena and an Echani known as The Handmaiden."

Lee glanced at Tamai, who shrugged and said, "I've got nothing. Strangers."

She took a long swig of cool water while the messenger continued, "Also, I believe the bounty hunters Cin Vhetin and Brianna Bellan were responsible for rescuing a number of prisoners from Caranthyr's base of operations."

Tamai almost coughed up her drink. "_What_? Say that again."

The messenger frowned at her. "I said that bounty hunters Brianna Bellan and Cin Vhetin were responsible—"

"I thought Vhetin was MIA after that explosion on Mon Calamari," she pressed. "He's been missing for the past three months. No word, no sign he was alive."

"Apparently not. Eyewitness reports place him on the scene of several of the investigations. He and the _aruetii_ Bellan were publically congratulated for their efforts in rescuing the captives, though I'm told they both refused any kind of reward. I believe _beroya_ Vhetin's only request was that someone pay for his medical expenses."

"Medical expenses?" Tamai echoed, her voice tighter than she intended. "Was he hurt?"

"Radiation poisoning," the messenger replied. "Quite severe from what I was told, but apparently he's going to pull through."

Tamai shook her head and stared down at her reflection in the surface of the water barrel. "Son of a bitch," she murmured. "So he's back…"

"You have some kind of history with this big-shot?" Lee asked her.

She sighed. "You could say that. An old friend. It's… complicated."

Lee pointed the messenger in Ranger-Commander Bor's direction, then returned to his earlier spot leaning against the trading post wall. "An old friend, huh? Well you can probably see him again. If we're all shipping back to Keldabe, you'll have plenty of time to visit while we're getting this fancy anti-terrorism training."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," she said, turning away from the water barrel.

"Oh? And why not?"

"Because," she said, replacing her helmet. "If I see him again, I'm gonna kill him."

"Ah. Is that literally or figuratively?"

"I don't know. It depends on my mood at the time."

"Right," Lee said. "It's complicated."

"Uh-huh."

Ranger-Commander Bor was busy gathering up the rest of the Rangers scattered throughout the town. While they were getting ready, the warbling drone of an old Wars-era LAAT/I troop carrier drowned out his orders. The ship roared over the town before it settled just beyond the outskirts, kicking up a thick cloud of dust and dirt as it did. Once the dust had settled, the bay doors on either side scraped open, beckoning them in.

Lee nudged Tamai's arm with a grin and held out his fist. "_Oya_."

She bumped her own fist with his, still frowning absently. "_Oya."_


	5. Vhetin and Jay

5

**Keldabe Medcenter, one month after the events of _White Snow: Contention_**

"Cin? Can I come in or do you need a minute to find a mask?"

Vhetin quickly pulled his black cloth mask over his face, adjusting it before calling, "You're good. Come on in."

He turned to face the newcomer with a smile he knew she couldn't see. "Jay. It's good to see you."

She smiled back at him and spread her arms. "Come on. It's been weeks."

He hesitated, but grudgingly allowed her to pull him into a friendly hug. "How have you been holding up?" she asked as they separated.

"Bored," he sighed. "I'm itching for some action. And the shitty medcenter holonet broadcasts are driving me insane. It's all reality shows and soap operas. Nothing of substance."

"I sympathize," Jay said. "I'm sorry you couldn't come with me to Ord Cestus. It would have been nice to have you there."

"I wish I could have been there too," he said. "But my hands are almost healed and the docs say I should be good to leave in a week or so. I'll be as good as new soon."

"Let's see."

He raised his hands and flexed them. The livid, burned flesh was almost completely gone, replaced by his normal pale skin. The radiotherapy hadn't even messed with the intricate green-black Kiffar tattoo that stretched down his right arm and over the back of his hand. He'd be good as new soon, and more than capable of getting back to work.

"What about the… other thing? The pneumonia."

"That's proving to be trickier. The docs haven't seen anything like it," Vhetin said, folding his arms across his chest. His masked face pulled down in a frown. "And I won't let them send samples to Coruscant for study. It would just bring the Empire down on me again."

"But there is a treatment?"

"A treatment? Yes. A cure? Not yet. For now they've managed to find a specific enzyme that slows the process of the virus to a crawl. As long as I stay on the meds, I should only vomit up preservative fluid a few times a month, rather than every day."

She sighed. "Kriff… that sounds horrible."

"It sounds worse than it is," he said. "I can breathe just fine now and I don't have to worry about accidentally infecting anyone with the serum. As long as I'm vigilant and stay on the medication, I should be fine."

"But you're still infected with the stuff! I'd hardly call that fine."

"I'm not contagious," he said, "and with time, the doctors are confident they can find a full-blown cure. And any more information we're able to find out about what Whiteclaw was planning will only speed up the process."

She shook her head. "I just wish there was more I could do."

He sat down on the edge of the hospital bed and picked up a handheld datapad from a nearby table. Fifteen missed messages, almost all from his sister. She was pestering him about sneaking out and joining her and her other engineer friends for a night of Correllian poker. He sighed and deleted all the messages.

"Just think positive thoughts," he said. "That's about all I can ask of you."

She nodded and settled herself into the chair next to the bed, sitting back and crossing her legs comfortably. "Any updates on Whiteclaw?"

"I still have Tarron looking into it for me. As one of the few foreigners allowed into the Hapan Consortium, he's less likely to draw attention to himself. The Queen Mother trusts him and the Empire has no desire to cause a diplomatic incident with the Consortium, so even if he is caught he's got somewhere to hide."

"And what has he found out?"

"It doesn't look like Whiteclaw was completely destroyed by the destruction of the research facility on Quorbus," he said with a scowl. "Some of the researchers managed to evacuate in time, and Imperial Commando teams managed to pull quite a bit of equipment from the wreckage. They're far from back on track, but they have the means and the motivation to do so."

"So there's still more to be done?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "After Quorbus, the trail goes cold. It's like those who survived dropped off the map. There are rumors that they were reassigned to a new project."

"Isn't that a good thing? As long as they aren't breeding monsters anymore."

Vhetin shook his head. "I don't know. Something about it seems… off. I don't like it."

They sat in silence for a few moments before Jay forced a smile and said, "Well that's far off in the future for now. No sense worrying about what you can't change."

He chuckled dryly. "It's almost like you don't know me at all, Jay. Worrying about what I can't change is a specialty of mine. But I guess you have a point. How did the contract on Ord Cestus go?"

She pulled a face. "It wasn't all that special. The Cestans creep me out. Those compound bug eyes? Too freaky."

"And the contract?"

"Some small-time jewel thief who surrendered without a fight. Again, nothing special. You're the one with the talent for finding exciting contracts."

He snorted. "I wouldn't call it a talent, particularly considering we both almost die every time we take a contract of mine."

She grinned. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Stripes. More memorable that way."

He shrugged and rested back against the hospital bed, putting his feet up and resting his hands behind his head. "Well enjoy the boring contracts while you can, _vod_. I'll be back in the swing of things in no time. Things will get more than exciting enough then."

"Speaking of exciting," Jay said with a mischievous grin, "what are these whispers I hear about you and Nurse Vachiira?"

He groaned. "You've been talking to Janada, haven't you?"

She nodded, a smug grin on her face. "And it seems the two of you have gotten pretty close since I last saw you."

He was glad she couldn't see the blush burning his face. "It's nothing. I just asked her to lunch. To thank her for taking such good care of me while I've been stuck here."

"Uh-huh. And after that it just became habit? Sharing lunch almost every day?"

"She's… friendly," he said, cursing the guilty tone in his voice. "Damn it, Jay, you're all blowing this out of proportion."

"You know, she _is_ pretty cute. No one would blame you if-"

"Jay," he said warningly. "Let it go."

She raised her hands in surrender. "All right, fine. Excuse me for being glad you're reaching out for someone who makes you happy."

"I don't…" he sighed. "I'm not good at this kind of thing, Jay. And having you and Janada poking and prodding at it isn't helping. I feel like an idiot every time I talk to Alix as it is."

"Alix?" Jay echoed. "You're on a first-name basis already? That's… right, sorry."

He sighed and shook his head. "This is all just… confusing. I don't like it."

"Would it really be so bad to be involved with someone else? I know you and Brianna were together for years, but that's over."

He nodded. "I know. But… I don't know, Brianna never asked for the fancy stuff. She and I were just… together_. _There was no need for _dating_."

Jay snorted and muttered under her breath, "No wonder you two were always fighting."

"What?"

She cleared her throat. "Okay, Cin. I'm going to give you a little lesson about the opposite sex. We _like_ being dated. We like to feel special. And before you say that Mandalorians are different, you're not. I've seen the girls around Keldabe and whether they all pretend to be stoic and hate feelings and shit, they're not that different from _aruetiise_."

She grinned at him. "Just make this Alix girl feel special. Make her feel like you care for her and you're already past this indecisive point."

"But that's just the thing," he said. "I don't know if I care for her. She's… confusing."

"But she's nice."

"Yeah."

"And you like her."

"I guess."

"And she likes you."

"She seems to."

She threw her hands up in the air. "Then I don't know what the problem is! People have built up meaningful relationships on more than just that, Cin. Do you want to get closer to her or not?"

"I… I guess."

"Then grow a pair and _do it_. If she were a bounty contract, would you prance around and complain about your indecision? No! You'd blast down the door, clap her in a pair of stun cuffs, and haul her away!"

She suddenly frowned. "And that metaphor just sounded a lot creepier when I said it out loud."

He shrugged. "You're right, I guess. I'll… I'll think over what you've said."

"Good. That's all I'm asking."

It was good advice. It just wasn't advice he was particularly happy to act on. While it was true he liked Alix's company and she seemed to genuinely like him in return, he still felt guilty every time he asked her out to lunch, like somehow he was betraying Brianna. And while it was true she had left him almost four months ago now and he was within his rights to move on. Maybe Alix would offer him the peace he sought. He hoped so.

He stood from the bed and walked over to the cabinet on the far wall, where he was storing his gear for the time being. He began pulling on his armor, fastening the new, segmented armor plating to his flight suit when he was finished. Jay watched him arm up for a time before she cocked her head and said, "I do have another question for you, though."

"Shoot," he said, slipping on one armored gauntlet.

"When can I see your face?"

He froze. "What do you mean?"

"Well, everyone I know has seen your real face: Rame, Mia, Brianna, Janada. Even Denton, but he says you made him swear not to tell what you really look like. And now even your nurse has seen what you look like under that helmet. When do I get a turn?"

He still didn't move. When he did, he looked down and picked up his helmet before pointedly securing it over his head. "I… I don't know."

In his HUD's 360-degree view, he saw Jay's lips tighten in irritation and her shoulders slump in disappointment. "I see."

He turned to her. "It's nothing against you, Jay. I'm just… not comfortable."

"You seem more than comfortable going helmetless around everyone else," she pointed out. "Why not me?"

"It's… complicated."

"Isn't it always?"

He frowned as he stepped back over to the bed and sat down on the edge, adjusting his gauntlet as he did. "Jay, there were a lot of side effects from my accident. A lot of behavioral quirks that I have no intention of changing. I don't like showing my face to anyone, even the people you just mentioned. Keeping my face hidden…. it's just something I have to do."

"But why? Why are you so shy about it?"

"It's not something I can explain," he said. "I just feel… safer, I guess."

"So you feel unsafe around me."

"No! That's not what I'm saying. I just…"

He sighed. "After my accident, I couldn't remember anything about who I was before. And every morning when I woke up, I was forced to look in the mirror and see a stranger. Someone… foreign and unfamiliar. I hated that feeling. And when I was eventually given my helmet, I saw a chance to make it into something far more familiar, something that was truly _me_."

He stared at the ground, refusing to meet her gaze even through his HUD's video readout. "I guess… I guess I just don't want you to get too familiar with a face that's not my own. With someone that isn't who I really am."

"But that _is_ who you really are." She sounded more confused than anything else.

"But it's not," he said. "Not really. That face belongs to the thirteen-year-old boy who lived before the crash. Before the amnesia, before everything that made me who I am. That face belongs to someone else. And after seven years, I'm less and less inclined to treat that boy as who I really am inside. I don't remember anything about him, so why should I bother?"

"This," he said, pointing to his helmet faceplate, "is one of the only things that belongs solely to Cin Vhetin. _This_ is truly me, more than my real face could ever be. That face is just a mask, nothing more. And I wouldn't want you getting familiar with someone who isn't me. Someone who was never really me."

He finally looked up at her. "Those other people who've seen my face… it's not because I trust them more than you. It's been necessity more than anything else. And I guess the reason I don't want to show you my face is _because_ I trust you. I trust you enough to know that you'll have my back and stay with me even if you still don't know everything about me. I trust you enough to treat _this_-" He pointed to his helmet again, "as a better indicator of who I am than my nose or my eyes or my hair."

She pondered over this, staring at him for a long time. But eventually she nodded and said, "I can respect that, even if I don't understand it."

He nodded, feeling relieved. But she continued, "But I'd still like to see your face. Maybe not today, not tomorrow, or even a year from now. But I'd like to see it all the same. You're my friend. I want to know more about him than just the armor he wears."

He hesitated, torn by indecision. It was a reasonable request, one that he knew she would make sooner or later. He eventually cleared his throat awkwardly and said, "All right. Someday. When I'm comfortable with it."

She nodded. "Okay. I can live with that."

She stood from her chair and clapped him on the shoulder as she passed, a reassuring gesture. "Get better soon, Cin. We miss you out there."

He nodded. "Thanks. I'll be back before you know it."

She nodded, then turned and left the room.


	6. The New Girl

6

**_Oyu'baat Tapcaf, Keldabe, Mandalore_**

Jay fidgeted in her seat as they waited for their drinks. It had already been fifteen minutes with no sign of them, and she was doubting more and more the wisdom of her plan to introduce Vhetin's new girlfriend (if that was what was even going on between them) to the rest of the group.

Feigning nonchalance, she clasped her hands together and forced a smile. "So… how was the medcenter this week?"

Alix Vachiira was far from the typical native-born Mandalorian woman. She had pale, smooth skin, silky raven-black hair, and kind brown eyes. She was certainly attractive, but seemed to lack the usual rough beauty of a Mandalorian like Janada or Jay's friend Wad'e Rangir.

She seemed nice enough, but was obviously just as uncomfortable as Jay. She returned a smile of her own that was just as tense and said, "Fine. Work at the medcenter was busy, but mostly calm. Nothing too exciting. It's strange getting back to the normal routine now that Cin's been released from our care."

"Good… good…" Jay trailed off, tapping her thumbs together and thinking, _This was such a bad idea. Where are those damn drinks?_

It wasn't that Vachiira was impolite, but Jay just couldn't think of anything to say. She really had no connection to the woman besides their respective attachments to Cin. But at least she was trying. Janada, sitting next to Jay, was openly glaring at Vachira and hadn't so much as spoken a word since she sat down. Her fingers were folded under her chin and her dark brown eyes were fixed on the newcomer to their circle. Vachiira shot her a nervous smile, then looked down at her lap, blushing a little. The Handmaiden, sitting at the end of their table, looked between the two with something akin to passive fascination, but had said nothing since greeting them.

"So…" Brianna eventually began from her seat to Jay's left. Unlike Jay, she didn't seem upset at all and actually seemed to be enjoying the discomfort Janada was putting their guest through. "What made you get into nursing, Vachiira?"

"Alix, please," the raven-haired woman corrected her. "And I started studying nursing because of my aunt. A lot of my clan are battlefield medics or doctors. I wanted to continue the tradition."

"A noble cause," the Handmaiden said. "Among my people, medical personnel are highly valuable and highly respected. Combat healers are the most sought-after battlefield units, even among the Imperials who garrison our world."

"Where are you from?" Vachiira inquired.

"Eshan," the Handmaiden replied. "Homeworld of the Echani Battlemasters."

"Ah. I have to admit, I don't have much experience with Echani."

"We rarely stoop to fraternization with less impressive species," the Handmaiden muttered with a scowl at a passing Mandalorian in dark green armor. "Mine, however, is a… special case."

Vachiira looked like she had regretted asking in the first place now. She nodded and murmured, "Fascinating," then looked back down at her lap.

"Where are those drinks?" Jay muttered, glancing to the bar. The tender, Aramis, met her gaze and shrugged apologetically. Jay frowned at him, but sighed and turned back to the table. Janada had finally decided to pitch in.

"Do you fight?"

Vachiira looked at the engineer with something very close to fear and stammered, "W-what?"

"Are you a supercommando?"

"N-no."

Janada narrowed her eyes and simply said, "Huh."

Vachiira smiled nervously again and fell silent. Jay didn't blame her; Janada seemed to be going out of her way to be intimidating. Jay didn't know if she just didn't like the woman or if she was having fun tormenting the new girl, but whatever the motivation it was working. Vachiira had barely spoken more than a few sentences since arriving at the _Oyu'baat_ and didn't seem to want to speak any more than necessary.

Jay leaned over to Janada and murmured, "I thought you were the one pushing Cin to hook up with this woman."

"I was actually kind of teasing," the Mando woman muttered back. "I didn't expect the numbskull to actually follow through."

"Well go easy on her," Jay murmured. "Look at her; she's terrified."

"Good," Janada said, narrowing her eyes. "Where are those kriffing drinks?"

Brianna leaned back in her chair and attempted to change the conversation. "So how have things been going for you, Jay? The contract on Cestus went well?"

"All calm," Jay said, glad to finally get conversation flowing again. "The guy didn't even put up a fight."

"Good. Seems like more idiot thugs are arming themselves these days. Contracts like that are getting more and more uncommon."

The Handmaiden glanced over at Vachiira and said, "What of you? Do you have any experience in the field of bounty hunting?"

"Um… no. I'm not a very combative person."

The Handmaiden stared at her. "I don't understand."

"I just don't like fighting."

The Handmaiden blinked and repeated, "I don't understand."

"Les here is an Echani," Jay quickly explained. "Their culture is very competitive. Even more so than the Mandalorians sometimes. Their culture revolves around combat as a means of expression. It's like communication for them."

"Wait… you fight people to _talk_ to them?"

The Handmaiden fixed Vachiira with an icy stare. "Among my people, we believe that the only way to truly know another and understand that which drives them is to face them in combat. In battle, all superficial aspects of life are stripped away, leaving us with only our most basic sense of self: mercy, hatred, weakness, strength. All are expressed in their truest, most basic forms. There is no better way to learn the heart of another."

She cocked her head. "I would like to fight you."

"Les!"

The Handmaiden glared at Jay. "What? I merely expressed my wish to get to know this newcomer. She is an unknown factor. And I do not like unknown factors. I simply wish to know what it is your Mandalorian partner sees in this woman who does not enjoy combat."

Jay sighed and rubbed her temples. "Les, some people aren't as combat-oriented as the Echani. Everyone is entitled to their own opinion."

"If that is the case then I will learn her personality quicker than most. She should not put up much of a fight."

"No! You aren't going to fight her."

The Handmaiden scowled. "Very well."

"You can fight me," Janada said. "I haven't had a good knock-down drag-out in ages."

"I offer more than a simple fistfight. An Echani fights to express herself, to show to her opponent and the world exactly what she is capable of. All my considerable skill will be poured into combat."

Janada shrugged. "Sounds like fun. You wanna say… ten minutes? Out behind the tapcaf?"

The Handmaiden bowed her head. "I look forward to it."

Jay buried her face in her hands. "_Te manda_ save me."

Brianna seemed to be watching the proceedings with amusement, leaning back and slinging an arm over the back of her chair. "Five credits on the Echani."

Jay was about to bring the conversation to a halt when Vachiira surprised them all by saying, "Ten on Miss Bralor."

It was a safe assumption that everyone present stared at her in open shock. She glanced between them, then smiled that same nervous smile. "What?"

"I thought you said you don't like combat?"

"I don't," she replied. "But it's plain to see that Miss Bralor has higher chances of winning."

The Handmaiden narrowed her pale blue eyes and pursed her lips. "And why exactly is that?"

Vachiira hesitated. "Well… just look at her face."

"Is that an insult?"

"Not at all. But you have several scars across your face, centered on the lips and the bridge of your nose, and your nose itself is slightly crooked; evidence that it has been broken on several occasions. The set of your jaw is slightly off-center as well – suggesting it was fractured at one point – and your right ear shows evidence of early cartilage separation and deformation. If left untreated this will result in what is known as Boxer's Ear. All of these are wounds commonly associated with fistfighting and brawling."

She looked at the Handmaiden. "You, however, Miss… is it Miss Handmaiden?"

The Handmaiden was still glaring at her. "Handmaiden alone will do."

"All right. Handmaiden here has fair skin, largely unmarked by scars or blemishes, a straight and refined nose, and normal ear structure. There isn't much evidence that she has seen many fistfights."

"Or perhaps," the Echani hissed, "I simply am skilled enough to not be struck during combat."

"That's a possibility," Vachiira said. "But I bet on Miss Bralor because even if you are both equally skilled, Bralor shows greater signs of being able to _withstand_ punishment rather than simply dole it out. She can obviously stay standing even if outmatched in a technical sense."

Janada stared at the nurse, then slapped her palms against the tabletop and said, "You know what? I'm starting to like you. I'm gonna buy you an extra round."

She glanced over her shoulder and pointedly raised her voice. "Provided the _first_ round ever _gets_ here!"

She turned back to the others with a growl. "So, Vachiira, how exactly do you manage to be a native-born Mandalorian and _not_ like fighting?"

The woman traced at a carving on the tabletop, looking embarrassed. "I just never really found combat to be that exciting. It never appealed to me. My father taught me how to fight like every other Mandalorian, but I never took it any farther than that."

She shrugged. "I prefer to save lives, not end them. So I trained with combat medics growing up and eventually took a position at the medcenter. It pays well and I enjoy my work."

"And you get to schmooze with the patients, apparently."

Vachiira blushed. "Cin is… a special case."

"What…" Jay hesitated. She knew Cin didn't like people prying into his personal life. But her curiosity was getting the better of her, so she said, "What made you two hook up anyway? No offense, but you don't really seem like his type."

"What is his type?"

"Me," Brianna said bluntly. When Janada glared at her, she shrugged and said, "What? It's true."

"You _dumped_ him."

"Yeah. That doesn't change the fact that we were dating for almost five bloody years."

"And you dumped him!"

Brianna tipped back in her chair, setting her boots up on the edge of the table and folding her arms. "Still doesn't change anything."

Vachiira was looking at Brianna with undisguised fascination. Jay couldn't blame her; Brianna was the only one at the table who had known Vhetin from the beginning. She knew him better than anyone Jay had ever met, including his own sister.

"And what about you, Miss Bellan? If you're more his type, how did you two get together?"

"The accent," Janada muttered. "It had to be the accent. He couldn't resist the fancy-pants Coruscant sound."

Jay nudged the woman in the ribs.

Brianna frowned. "It's… a long story. Suffice to say he was in a very bad place and I did my best to help him. We got close, then we just got… closer."

"See, that's the way it happened!" Vachiira insisted. "I was assigned to help him to his meals after he completed his radiotherapy and before I knew it, it was a date."

"Would that we all managed to hook up that easily," Janada said, resting her forearms at the table. "I had to threaten Verdo at knifepoint before he decided to go out with me."

Jay burst out laughing. "Somehow I'm not even surprised. Why Verdo puts up with your shit is beyond me."

"Look at me! I'm, like, one of the best-looking fems in Keldabe!"

"Yeah," Brianna chuckled. "Oil stains and all."

"Ah, those just add character." The engineer looked over to see one of the _Oyu'baat_'s new refurbished serving droids whirring over to their table, carrying a tray of drinks. She let out a short curse and sighed, "_Finally_. Is Aramis paying you by the hour or something?"

The droid cocked its mechanical head and droned, "I do not understand. Droids are not paid to operate. Please, enjoy your beverages."

It passed them their drinks, then zipped off to serve other customers. Janada passed each of them their drinks (save the Handmaiden, who had ordered a tall glass of ice water much earlier) then stared at Vachiira again. "So, I take it you're planning to stick around with Cin?"

She blushed. "That's the plan. For now at least."

"Well… I guess you aren't as bad as I thought. At least not yet."

"Thanks. What a glowing endorsement."

"Trust me," Brianna said, sitting forward and raising her glass, "that's the closest to a compliment you're going to get out of her."

Janada snorted, then raised her glass in toast. "All right. Glasses up, everyone. To the new girl."

"To the new girl," they all murmured, tapping their glasses together.

* * *

_Author's Note: I've got about three new Off Duty __chapters finished right now, so expect to see more in the near future. Enjoy, and don't forget that reviews or critiques are always welcome._


	7. Training Begins

**_Void _****Cargo Bay**

The Handmaiden was inspecting the contents of one of the cargo boxes. The Mandalorian kept the contents of his ship admirably sparse and from her perusal, she had discovered the ship was stocked only with essentials. She found food rations, medicinal supplies, and crates upon crates of ammunition. In his profession, she assumed he needed a plethora of all three.

The longer she waited, the more she regretted her earlier decision to train the Mandalorian in the ways of the Echani. Despite his conduct over the course of Caranthyr's bombings, he was still no Echani. And she was no Battlemaster. It was not her place to hand down her people's traditions to anyone, let alone a brutish and uncultured mercenary.

Yet as she debated with herself, she also found herself increasingly confused. The Mandalorian, this Cin Vhetin, didn't seem like the other Mandalorians she knew. He was calm and controlled, level-headed even in the worst situations. And, the most important as well as most irritating observation, he seemed to seek preservation of life over destruction. He had reprimanded her severely for killing a questionable suspect over the course of their investigation, had even entertained the thought of keeping her incarcerated as long as they were hunting Caranthyr.

She scowled as she ripped off the lid of another cargo box. Protein bars this time, neatly stacked and wrapped in case of emergency. She shook her head and moved on to the next one.

Mandalorians weren't supposed to be merciful. They weren't supposed to be kind. They were a brutal, violent people with a history of killing innocents to achieve their goals. They were ruthless and evil and…

She sighed and let her gloved palms lay flat against another crate. She needed to regain control of herself. Of course not all Mandalorians would be the same. They were different people, just as all Echani were different people. Still, it angered her that this man, who showed the faintest glimmer of promise if schooled under Echani teachings, was still one of them.

She narrowed her ice blue eyes. He was a Mandalorian. And he would always be a Mandalorian. It was already a fact that he would not be able to master the ways of her people. He may be fast, faster than a human, but he was not as fast as an Echani; it was not biologically possible even for him. The most he'd accomplish would be a pale reflection of Echani grace and battlefield perfection.

The thought comforted her. She would not be betraying her people, not really. He would not be an Echani in any sense of the word. Merely another barbarian seeking to reflect the perfection of the Echani way.

She pried the lid off a long, rectangular box and stopped short. There was no ammunition or food stocks inside, but rather a suit of armor. It was colored dark gray with two blue stripes up the side of the helmet, very similar to the Mandalorian's current armor designs. But unlike his current suit, this design was much simpler and much more basic. The suit sported a gray-blue belt skirt and a more traditional Mandalorian cape fastened to the shoulders.

His suit? An old prototype maybe? She didn't know or particularly care.

She reached down and traced the faceplate of the helmet with her gloved fingertips. How strange, that this simple T-shaped aperture of tinted black transparisteel could evoke such fear across the galaxy. That the simple arches and curved dome of this helmet could strike terror into the hearts of the galaxy's most hardened criminals. By comparison, the bleached white robes and pointed hood of an Echani warrior were tame and unassuming.

She narrowed her eyes. These Mandalorians were brutes, it was true, but they commanded a fear and respect the Echani had not seen in centuries. From such luminaries as Mandalore the Ultimate to more recent boogeymen like Boba Fett, the Mandalorians had given the universe something to respect, something to treat seriously.

The Echani commanded no such power. They were respected by some, but only by those who held reverence for the glory the white-clad warriors had once held long ago. No bandits would shake in fear to hear an Echani was pursuing them. No hardened soldier would lay down his arms at the sight of white hair and unnaturally blue eyes. Even on Eshan, warriors were most often seen as little more than bloodthirsty hermits worthy of neither pity nor mercy.

It was despicable, and it made the Handmaiden jealous. And more than a little sad.

"Usually," came a quiet voice from behind her, "a guest doesn't go prying through her host's personal belongings."

The Handmaiden slowly straightened, not turning to face him. She kept her gaze fixed on the faceplate of the helmet at her feet. "This was yours?"

"It was." Heavy bootsteps thudded against the floor behind her. "A long time ago."

"What do they mean?" she asked. "In your culture, these colors hold meaning. What is it?"

"Blue for reliability," he explained. "And gray for mourning something lost."

She did not ask what he had lost. She understood better than most that such memories were best left in the past, and it was not her place to pry into his history. But she did say, "Your current armor. You told me it stands for justice. What made you change?"

She finally turned to face him and found him once more fully encased within his traditional Mandalorian battle armor: matte black, with stylized gray stripes adorning the hard planes and sharp corners of his armor. He had recovered his lost equipment from the battle with Caranthyr and was now fully ready for whatever trouble may come before him.

"What made you change?" she repeated.

"_I_ changed," he said. "It's hard to stay the same person after seven years, particularly given our profession. My priorities were different, so I figured I needed to alter my outward appearance to match."

"And how many colors hold meaning among your people?"

"Seven major ones," he said. "But not all hold meaning. Sometimes we choose colors simply because we like them."

The Handmaiden looked back down. "Things are simpler on Eshan. We have only two colors that hold meaning: white stands for honor and all things Echani, and black stands for rebellion and shame. There is no middle ground."

"You've mentioned this before."

"It is central to our iconography and quite important to our very survival. White robes help us blend with the snow, camouflage us to our enemies' eyes. Those who are exiled are branded with black colors to stand out, where they would be easily preyed upon by native predators or bandits."

"Harsh," he said. "But it has a kind of poetic justice to it, I guess."

She turned to him and hooked her arms behind her back. "Are you ready to begin?"

He flexed his shoulders, the thick metal plates shifting and clanking together as he did. "I've been out of the medcenter for a few days now. The doctors have given me the green light for deployment with the Supercommandos. Is that good enough?"

She nodded. "I am satisfied."

She secured the lid back on the armor locker and motioned for him to follow her to the center of the room. Once there, she settled herself down into a seated, cross-legged position, staring at him expectantly. He followed suit, a little more awkwardly because of his heavy _beskar_ armor.

"Before we begin, it important for you to understand that our combat is deeply rooted in the practices and tradition of our culture. I do not expect you to adopt our traditions as your own, but I do expect you to at the very least possess a working knowledge of them."

He nodded. "Very well."

"Good. Then remove your helmet."

He froze. "What?"

"Among my people, it is considered the height of arrogance to avoid eye contact while speaking. Even blinking is considered a necessary evil at times. So please, remove your helmet. I will not ask again."

Still he hesitated. "You know how uncomfortable it makes me."

"Your personal discomfort is not my concern. You will obey the ways of my people or I will not train you. It is that simple."

He waited, obviously thinking hard. Then he reached up and grasped the sides of his helmet. The seal popped with a loud hiss of pressurized air escaping. He set the helmet to the side, resting it on the floor next to his knee. Beneath the helmet, he wore a black cloth facemask that left only his eyes visible. Blue, like an Echani's. She grimaced at the thought and quickly pushed it away to the back of her mind.

"Is this good enough?" he asked, obviously praying she agreed.

She was not here to comfort him. And while wearing such a mask obeyed the letter of the tradition, it did not fulfill the spirit of it. So she shook her head and said, "It is not. Your mask must be removed as well. It is our way."

He sighed. "I don't like this."

She frowned at him "I am not asking that you like it. I am asking that you follow the customs asked of every Echani youngling from my oldest ancestors to me."

He sighed and grudgingly reached up to remove his mask. Hooking his fingers under the hem, he drew it up and over his chin, then in a swift motion pulled it off completely. He took a long breath as he set the mask aside. His eyes were squeezed shut, as if he were trying to convince himself it was not real.

Handmaiden noticed the way his hands trembled and her face softened against her will. "Among my people, appearances mean nothing. Actions speak more about what a person truly is inside than their physical features ever can."

He nodded, staring down at his lap. She looked at him for only a few moments, her eyes darting over his features, studying him. Then she lowered her gaze as well. She reached out and gently picked up his helmet. She studied it in the same way for a few silent moments, turning it over in her hands.

It was heavy, far heavier than she had expected. She saw that the inside of the helmet was padded along the dome to prevent brain injury, and what appeared to be a simple transparisteel T-visor from the outside was actually a mess of electronics and sensory equipment on the inside. She had heard of such devices, holographic head's-up-displays that fed the user all manner of information about the environment. Why he would wish to encase himself in such a device was beyond her.

Her voice was very soft as she murmured, "You fear to show your true face?"

He let out a shaky breath. "You have no idea."

"Why? Why would you be ashamed of who you are?"

"It's..." he swallowed, his mouth suddenly very dry. "It's a very long story. Suffice to say that I take no comfort in my own appearance. It is not who I am."

"You have nothing to fear from yourself, Cin Vhetin," she said, glancing over at his face again. "Your features are nothing to be ashamed of."

"You're very kind. But this is not a part of me that is going to change. I can't alter it as easily as I alter my armor."

She could understand that at least. So she bowed her head and said, "Very well. I cannot expect you to follow my customs while holding no respect for yours. Let us move on to more pressing matters."

"Please," he said. "Let us."

She set his helmet aside, then pulled the retracted hilt of her staff from her belt and held it out before him. He made no move to take it from her.

"This," she explained, "is the weapon we shall be training with: a ceremonial Echani quarterstaff. It is a half-meter cylinder of durasteel-phrik alloy, wrapped with Echani iceleather to provide a better grip for the wielder. At the press of a button, twin beams spring from either side of the hilt transform it into a two-meter battle staff capable of carving through six inches of solid durasteel if struck with enough force."

"Impressive," he said. "And there are no blades? No vibro-initiators?"

"No. The ends are flattened and there is no higher technologies in its construction. It is a blunt-force instrument, handed down from mother to daughter from generation to generation. The Echani focus not on advanced technology but on perfecting the greatest weapon of all."

"What weapon is that?"

The Handmaiden narrowed her eyes. "Ourselves. The physical body. Mind, muscle, fist and foot. We train ourselves to become instruments of war, as dangerous as the sharpest blade or the deadliest rifle."

She set the quarterstaff on the floor between them. "An Echani trains to become more than a warrior, but to become a _weapon_. So that any Echani, from the greatest Battlemaster to the lowliest Handmaiden, can never truly be disarmed or robbed of our ability to defend ourselves."

She pulled her hood down over her shoulders, revealing her shoulder-length bleached white hair. "These are the skills I offer you. Such disciplines take years to learn and many, many more to master. You, however, will not be physically capable of mastering them. But should you succeed in passing the training I offer, you will be faster, stronger, and deadlier than you can even begin to imagine now."

"And if I fail?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Then you will simply prove my suspicions that Mandalorians are not capable of learning higher levels of combat perfection. You will cease to be my pupil and we shall go our separate ways. I will not lead you by the hand throughout this training, Mandalorian. You will succeed and be forged anew, or you will fail and I will not train you again."

He pondered over this, then nodded. "All right. I'm ready."

"Good." She rose to her feet and produced a second quarterstaff from her belt. It was a simpler device, with no intricate Echani runes carved into the iceleather bindings, and no signs of wear on the hilt. It was a sparring staff, reserved specifically for these situations. She tossed the weapon to him and said, "Prepare. Before I begin to teach you, I must first learn of your skill level already. You show promise when battling with your lightsaber pike. Such skill may be transferable."

"Okay," he said, easily snatching the metal cylinder out of the air. He extended the twin beams of either end and spun the weapon between his hands to test its weight. His wrists twisted, arms shifting and moving to propel the staff along its path. There was a grace to his motions that she had not seen before. The pale grey durasteel blended into a dizzying blur of color as he whirled the weapon around his back. He then grasped the hilt tightly and shoved the weapon forward. The staff froze still in the air, barely moving.

"An impressive thrust," she noted.

"It's an impressive weapon," he replied. "It's light. Lighter than my saber pike. Are you sure it can stab through durasteel?"

"If force is applied in the correct manner. The quarterstaff is a precision instrument. With no vibroblades or energy weapons, the staff is not meant to cut or stab or maim. It is a blunt-force weapon, intended for reach, defense, and swift, accurate strikes. If force is applied correctly to a well-aimed thrust or a powerful swing, the hardened phrik beams are capable of doing much damage. But if force is applied incorrectly, the blow will fall short and force will rebound through the staff and do just as much damage to the user."

"I know basic melee weapon physics," Vhetin said.

"Yet you are pampered by your use of energy weapons," the Handmaiden pointed out. "If you stab incorrectly with your lightsaber or hit something stronger than you, the blade merely carves it in two. There is no resistance, no force to oppose you. The quarterstaff can be a deadly weapon, but it can also harm you if you do not treat it with respect."

"What, now you're telling me I have to be polite to my weapons?"

"Your weapons serve you well on the battlefield when they are well maintained and well-used. You do not use a rifle as a club, do not use your lightsaber pike as a ranged weapon. The same concept is true here. Respect the quarterstaff's strengths and weaknesses, understand the limits of its reach and power, and it will never fail you."

He retracted the beams with a short nod. "All right. I'll do my best."

"I fear," she said, "even that will not be enough."

"You keep saying that," he said. "But you seem to forget I'm not as weak as a human. I can move faster in battle than any normal warrior. And my Teras Kasi training isn't exactly something to scoff at either."

"Speed is not everything," she replied. "Yet your Teras Kasi training tells you that the faster you can overcome your enemy, the better you are as a fighter. To fight as an Echani, you must instead use your knowledge of combat tactics to _study_ your enemy."

"So I should purposefully hold back? What good with that do me?"

"Not hold back. But use the movements of combat to learn more than just your enemy's strengths and weaknesses."

She stepped away from him and drew the quarterstaff, aiming it toward the floor. He folded his arms across his chest, obviously waiting for a demonstration. She performed a few basic quarterstaff moves: stabs, parries, and distracting spins.

"Battle among my people," she said as she moved, "is a form of communication. Through combat, one may learn more about an opponent in a matter of minutes than over months of conversation."

He chuckled, leaning on his staff. "And I thought Mandalorians weren't big talkers."

"To use an old human phrase," she said, speeding up her motions, "talk is cheap. In battle, all superfluous distractions of life are washed away. Adrenaline and emotion combine, leaving combatants open to moments of pure, unadulterated expression of emotion: mercy, fury, hatred, compassion. In the height of combat, people show you who they truly are inside by means of their stance, their form, and their actions as they fight you."

"I've fought plenty of people," he said, watching as she threw herself into an impressive whirling leap and landed with legs spread, evenly distributing the force of her fall. "And I've never been able to gain insight into criminal psychology through fighting them."

"You are untrained," she said smoothly, coming to a halt. It didn't quite sound like an insult this time. "You do not know what to look for. But it is the way of my people to study battle, to immerse ourselves in the ebb and flow of combat, in order to better understand our enemies."

"But it's all just theory," he pointed out. "You can't actually predict how someone will act just by watching them."

"There are psychologists, con men, and magicians who can predict what beings are thinking simply by reading clues from the subtlest facial cues or bodily movements. It is far from uncommon. My people employ a similar practice, yet put to a different, far more extreme use."

She demonstrated, taking a slow step forward, raising her staff, and performing a smooth, graceful striking motion. "The slightest flick of the eyes, the smallest shift of balance, or the quietest hitch of breath can give clues as to an opponent's next move. Echani are trained to see these actions, to anticipate potential outcomes merely by watching and observing."

"But if you can take your opponent out quickly," he said, carefully watching her movements, "you can conserve time and energy for your next target. A soldier can't afford to waste time on a single target when others are waiting."

"But what if your target shares his training with his fellows?" she pointed out. "What if he flees and lives to fight another day? Is it not better to know the foundational style of his combat, the most basic way he and all his fellows interact with their environment? Such things can be immeasurably useful in the future."

He paused, considering this. "I… maybe."

"The way of an Echani," she said, lowering her staff, "is not one of brute force or violence. We favor tactics over brutality, and precision over power. We are trained to seek out the weak points of a single warrior and apply that weakness to the group as a whole, to devastating effect."

He shook his head. "I guess I'm still having trouble believing you can understand a person's personality just by watching them. I mean, combat style I get, but-"

"From our brief time working together," she suddenly interrupted him, "I can tell you are a formidable warrior. You hold yourself distant from more violent and extremist bounty hunters, acknowledging you are part of the same profession and capitalizing on the fear your profession creates, but very rarely agreeing with their motives or actions."

She rested her hands on her hips and continued, "You have a very strong sense of morality, and you always attempt to do the virtuous or kind thing, even in everyday matters. You hold your female companions in very high regard and conform to traditionalist viewpoints of courtesy to women in general. You do not interact much with others, not because you are antisocial but because you prefer silence to speech. You believe that your own weaknesses and shortcomings lead to your failures and, though you are determined to overcome them, you do not always believe you will succeed. Maybe you believe that is simply _part of who you are_, or maybe you believe that your successes will only lead to greater failures later, but you ultimately believe you will always be inadequate when compared to-"

"That's enough," he suddenly snapped, voice tense.

She stopped short. The fury in his voice surprised her. "I… I am sorry. I was merely demonstrating what I had learned about you from observation."

"You could have learned that from anyone I know," he said with a deep scowl. "It doesn't prove anything."

"I learned it by watching you in combat," she said. "May I explain my words?"

He said nothing, which she took as an assent. She pulled in a deep breath and quietly began, "It does not take an Echani to tell you are a formidable warrior. But I know you do not agree with other radical bounty hunters simply because of your appearance."

She gestured to his armor. "Your battle suit is made of well-forged Mandalorian iron that, despite seeing countless battles, has been expertly maintained. You obviously believe respectable appearances are important, which goes against the beliefs of other hunters who attempt to look as fearsome as possible, or carry the trophies of their kills upon their person.

"Your sense of morality is equally obvious," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "You hold yourself to a higher standard of justice and stick to that standard even though it leads you through great pain and suffering. I have also watched you interact with many of your female companions, and I have come to the belief that you would not seriously harm a woman in a situation that did not threaten your life, even if she attempted to harm you."

"How could you possibly know that?"

She gave him a small smile. "I was watching you while we battled Caranthyr's forces. Whenever pitted against a female fighter, you shifted your weight onto your heels when striking. You dulled your blows slightly to injure and incapacitate, but not kill. I do not believe you would afford all your enemies with the same courtesy."

"We were under orders to take Caranthyr's men alive," he grumbled. "We weren't supposed to kill them."

She nodded with a knowing smile. "If you insist."

"And what about the feelings of inadequacy?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Because for all I know, Janada could have fed you that line just to mess with me."

"Whether you consciously believe it or not, it is still true," she said. "I have seen the way you have struggled to return to health and fitness after your return from captivity. You spar alone, working to regain much of the muscle memory lost during your incarceration, yet you often end your training matches prematurely. You are frustrated by your inability to perform actions you once found easy. For a time you worked hard to improve, attempted to fine-tune your combat performance. Now, however, you simply mirror the intended combat forms to the best of your current ability. You believe you will not master the techniques in such a weakened state, so you simply move on to other endeavors, no doubt believing you have done your best. However, the anger in your stride after such training matches is difficult to overlook. You are angry at yourself because you do not possess the grace and poise you once did. Though it is no fault of your own, you still believe it is a personal failing."

She cocked her head. "Such a belief is not unique to a sparring match," she said. "This is an outlook beings carry with them for a very long time. And since being released from captivity I have not seen progression, which means you are not attempting to change it."

She bowed her head. "I apologize if my observations have angered you. Such was not my intention."

He shook his head, obviously at a loss for words. "That… that was incredible. Offensive as hell, but incredible. I've never seen anything like it."

"It is a custom among my people," she said. "We are masters of the battlefield, and not simply because of our lethality. The most skilled of Echani Battlemasters have been rumored to be able to predict the course of entire wars simply by observation. Upon a time, we were the most highly-sought battlefield tacticians in the galaxy. Now, though…"

She trailed off into silence with a shrug, staring absently at the floor tiles. The Echani had fallen far over the centuries, seen now as little more than bloodthirsty vagabonds clinging to ancient and outdated traditions. On Eshan, they were abandoned by the Empire, left to fend for themselves amid the deadly snow. Those who had the misfortune of living within the cities were herded into slums and called Whitehairs or Bleach-heads, spat on with derision by those who used to fear them.

She sighed and shook her head, focusing on the task at hand. She was drawn back to the present when the Mandalorian nodded and said, "Okay. Consider my mind officially open. Where do we go from here?"

She took a moment to gather her thoughts, then pulled off her elbow-length black gloves. The air within the ship's cargo bay was dry and warm, very unlike the frigid conditions in which she was used to training. Such an atmosphere would lead to excessive sweating and quick exhaustion, but it would have to do.

"I believe you are ready to begin learning the basic tenets of my culture's martial arts," she said. "We shall begin with the first and simplest of the three tiers of combat."

Then, with a quick and calm motion, she unzipped her hooded combat suit's top and set it aside. Within moments she had also slid out of her boots and pants, putting them with her combat suit. She now stood in nothing more than a bra and panties – white, like the rest of her clothing. Her skin was very pale, and quite a lot of it was very blatantly visible.

He stared at her with wide eyes for a moment before quickly turning his back and saying, "Um... what the hell are you doing?"

"What?"

"Why did you just take your clothes off? Is this some weird way to throw me off-balance for our fight?"

"How could a lessening of protective garments make me more effective in combat?"

"Let's just say that it might draw my observations away from the way you're standing during the fight. How can I concentrate on defending myself and studying your motions if you're half-naked?"

"Echani sparring rituals are centered on self-improvement. In fights such as this, one may come to rely upon the protection offered by one's equipment. When all advantages are stripped away, all that is left is the raw power, speed, and grace of one's own body."

"I think I can learn that just fine if we're both fully dressed," he said. "Can you at least put a shirt on?"

"Your modesty has no place here," she said, amused. She rested her hands on her hips. "One should not be embarrassed by the sight of another's body. It is merely muscle, blood, and bone. A weapon, if trained correctly."

"If you say so…" He slowly turning back around. He made sure to keep his eyes fixed on her face. "I assume I need to strip down as well?"

She inclined her head in response. "Your bodysuit should be adequate."

He sighed as he began pulling off his jetpack and gauntlets. "I don't like this."

"Technically," she said, the amusement in her voice growing stronger, "Echani duels are meant to be fought with no protective garments whatsoever. We fight in nothing but our own skin, like ancient gladiators. Consider that."

"I'd rather not," he said as he undid the restraints on his armored flak vest. Once done, he knelt to undo his boots. "It's hard enough to stay focused with you in your underwear."

"Then feel fortunate that you must suffer only this small indignity."

He snorted. "It's still uncomfortable. I don't know about you, but I don't make a habit of locking myself in my own cargo bay with beautiful, half-naked women. People tend to make assumptions when they hear about stuff like that."

"You find my features attractive?"

He paused, a very slight blush creeping up his cheeks. She narrowed her eyes in amusement at the sight. It was enjoyable to see him so unsettled, so far from the smug and superior Mandalorian warrior he believed himself to be.

"I do," he finally said, glancing up at her. "But what does it matter? You've said before you have no interest in men."

"I do not," she admitted. "And I advise you keep your baser instincts in check. Such emotions will cloud your judgment during our battle."

"Consider them checked," he said, straightening. He scooped up his quarterstaff and bounced on the heels of his feet anxiously. "Now are we going to do this or what?"

She drew her quarterstaff again, flicking her wrist and extending the twin beams of the weapon. "Very well. Show me what you can do."

He tensed, drawing his own weapon. He raised it in a balanced defensive position, shifting his balance from foot to foot. He narrowed his ice-blue eyes, then leaped forward.

* * *

_Author's Note: A bit of a longer chapter this time, mostly because this is actually pieced together from two different scenes I wrote a long time ago. Unfortunately, due to time constraints, I'm going to have to gloss a lot of the training between this point in the story and the start of _Isolation_ (which will take place a few months after this entry) but I figured this scene laid some pretty good foundations to Vhetin and Les' interactions during their training. Enjoy, and please leave a review if you do!_


	8. Nightmares

_Screams. Flashes of light. Bursts of fire. Shattered transparisteel flying through the air, spearing through the walls like tiny glittering knives. People jerk in their seats, tossed about by turbulence. A body flies past; a woman, screaming as she goes._

He shook his head, thinking, _No. No. Not again._

_Someone reaches across, buckling the crash webbing across his chest. He's screaming, screaming like everyone else. Part of the bulkhead tears away into open air, taking out an entire row of seats further ahead. He squeezes his eyes shut as a rushing sound fills his ears. Roaring, rushing, pounding wind surrounding him, tugging at him, yanking him further, further…_

_Someone grabs his chest, frantically trying to keep him in his seat. Too late. The wind gives one last, forceful yank and he's flying free into open air. Someone screams his name, but he doesn't hear it. What is it? What did they shout?_

_The world fades out to white, the rushing noise drowning everything else out. He's still screaming, tumbling head-over-heels until-_

He thrashed his head, clenching his hands into fists.

_Pain! Everything is burning! Like a thousand razor-sharp knives digging into every inch of his skin, his bones, everywhere. He tries to scream, but dirt is clogging his throat. He tries to move, but something heavy and cold is pinning him to the ground. He's face-down in the dirt, trapped there._

_Voices, off in the distance. He can't make out what they're saying. His ears are ringing, like the wind is still rushing around him. The ground feels soggy and damp beneath him; his blood soaking the ground, but he doesn't know it._

_The voices draw closer. He can make out their voices now, shouting and calling to each other._

_"Holy kriff, look at it! What kind of ship do you think it was?"_

_"Not now, Brianna. Fan out. Look for survivors."_

_"You really think there will be survivors from a crash like that? It must have been a transport of some kind. Ran into trouble and crashed. High-altitude repulsor explosion, maybe."_

_"Brianna! Fan out!"_

_"Oh. Right."_

He moaned, tearing at the sheets that trapped him in his bed. His head was pounding and he could feel a familiar deep burn behind his eyes, but he couldn't wake up.

_"Hey! I think I've got one here!"_

_"What is that he's buried under? Looks like an entire section of the bulkhead crushed him on the way down!"_

_"Good thing too. It protected him from most of the rest of the shrapnel coming down from the crash. He would have been speared in at least twenty places otherwise."_

_"Well don't just stand there! Get this thing off him."_

_The scraping sound of tortured metal being lifted away. His world shakes, like the very ground beneath him seeming to tremble. He lets out a groan as he feels the weight begin to lift from his chest. With a tortured scream and more than a few grunts and groans from his saviors, it shifts and disappears entirely. There was a massive crash as whatever was pinning him slammed to the ground next to him._

_"We're clear."_

_"It's… It's just a kid."_

_"Holy kriff, look at him! He looks like that cheese with all the little holes!"_

_"Brianna, run back to the house and get a stretcher."_

_"But I want to see!"_

_"Rame, we don't have time. This kid is going to bleed to death before we can safely move him. Brianna, grab his leg. I'll take the other one. Rame, his arms. We're going to haul him back to the farmhouse."_

_"Mia, moving him could kill him."_

_"And leaving him here will be just as bad. Now grab his arms!"_

_He felt hands roughly latching on to his limbs. There was a moment of weightlessness, then the world erupted into blinding, white-hot agony that raced through his veins._

He began screaming, arching his back and thrashing. He knocked over something heavy, heard it clatter to the ground. He was awake now, as awake as he could be. But the visions kept coming, faster than ever.

_Knives, digging deep into his skin. Blood welling. He can feel the shrapnel being dragged from his back, sliding free with a wet sucking sound. He tries to scream, tries to move, but someone puts a mask over his head and he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep._

_Days pass. He wakes up in an unfamiliar room. The door is barred, his chest and back are wrapped with thick bandages. He doesn't know why. His wounds hurt but he ignores the pain. He acts on instinct and attacks the first person who enters, grabs her by the throat and presses a sharpened splinter he'd been carving against the flesh there. She fights back. She's surprisingly quick. He hurts her, but she eventually pins him to the ground and handcuffs him. It's days before they take the handcuffs off again._

_Months pass. They tell him he has brain damage. That it's going to take time to re-learn what he knew before. Even the simple things: talking, walking. They want to teach him how to fight. How to shoot. How to kill. They say it's their way, their culture. They have a name, but he can't pronounce it yet._

_More time. He can pronounce it now. Mandalorians. They are Mandalorians. And they want him to be one too. The girl, the one who was there at the beginning, is always nice to him. But she's not a Mandalorian. She's pretty. She smiles at him._

_They call him Cin._

His eyes flew open, pale blue-white light pouring from his eye sockets. Smoky discharge wafted up into the air as he sucked in a deep breath and continued screaming. He sat bolt upright, his muscles tightening and shaking, but the visions wouldn't stop. His scream grew louder and more forceful, a primal, animalistic roar of fear, anger, and pain.

_Years pass. He's being hauled away by a squad of stormtroopers. They roughly tear away his armor, taking his weapons from him as they shove him through the reinforced doors of a heavily-guarded security checkpoint. They rip his belt off and one of the troopers pulls something from the belt. It's a tiny picture, a picture of her._

_He surges forward, trying to snatch it from them. They can't have that. They can have everything else, but not that. But they jab him in the ribs with a stun prod. He falls to the ground, spasming. He tries to crawl forward and grab the painting, but a white-armored boot descends and grinds it into dust._

_Months pass. Every day, the needles come back. They pierce his skin, pump ice-cold liquid into his lungs. He screams and resists, but he can't do anything. Every night, he dreams he's back, trapped under that heavy slab of shrapnel. He tries to find a way to not sleep, to stay awake as long as possible. At least until sleep deprivation forces him to pass out from exhaustion._

_They come for him again: white-cloaked doctors with datapads and needles. They're guarded by stormtroopers and heavy, clanking darktrooper droids. They reach out to him with their cold, too-dry hands. Reaching, reaching._

_The needles come back. Always, the needles come back._

He heard the door crash open and a worried voice shouted, "Cin!"

All at once, the voices stopped. The visions stopped. In the span of an instant, the real world came rushing back to him, all senses flooding back at once. The blue light pouring from his eyes instantly blinked out, leaving him sweating and blinking rapidly as his sight began to return. He gasped and shrank back against the wall, tucking his knees close to his chest. His breath was high-pitched and wheezing as his eyes frantically darted around the room.

The bed shifted as someone sat down next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. A gentle, soft hand, accompanied by the scent of… djiso flowers.

He gasped again, unable to control his breathing. "Brianna?"

"Ssh," she said. "It's me. I'm here."

"Bri…" He could barely pick her out amid the shadows in the room. He couldn't even tell if it was her or if it was just another figment of his imagination. He drew away from her, still able to see the hands reaching out for him, groping at him from the dark.

He rubbed his eyes, trying to drive the apparitions away. The logical side of his brain told him it was just remnants from his visions, that they were not real. But he could still see them, could still feel the needles piercing his skin. He held his head and let out a groan, the last few wisps of psychometric discharge wafting away into the shadows.

"Make them stop," he hissed through clenched teeth. Brianna tried touching his arm again, but he jerked away before she could. "Make them go away. Make them leave me _alone_!"

He screamed it at the corner, where one of the doctors was standing. "_Leave me alone!_"

Brianna's voice sounded a little fearful now. "Cin, it's just me. Just Bri. Calm down."

She grabbed him and pulled him close, drawing him into a tight, warm hug. He let out a gasp and clung to her, closing his eyes and letting her touch and her scent wash away the memories that still flickered through his mind's eye. She rocked back and forth a little, just like she used to when they'd still been teenagers.

"It's okay," she murmured. "It's okay, Cin."

Slowly, his breathing began to slow, his pounding heart easing back a little. When he opened his eyes, the doctor standing in the corner was gone, replaced by an angular metal illuminator lamp. He sighed and buried his face in Brianna's neck.

"Another of your nightmares?" she asked. "I forget what you called them."

"Psychometric relapse," he gasped. He latched on to the ability to speak, anything to draw his brain away from the dreams. "My abilities kick in while I'm dreaming. It stimulates my brain's dream cycle, feeds off of it. I get trapped in psychometric memories. Anything I've touched before becomes fair game."

"You haven't had one of those dreams in years."

"Things change," he hissed.

"And this time it was?"

He shivered. "Lots of things. The crash. The surgery after. The… the Imperials."

He squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a shaky sigh and hugging her tighter. "Ever since Quorbus, it's been the same. Every night, every time I so much as close my eyes, it all comes back. I can't… can't stop it. It's like… like my psychometry is out of control."

"How many times have you relapsed?"

"Almost every other night since escaping. It's… I can't handle this, Brianna."

"Shh," she murmured, rubbing his back reassuringly. "It's okay. You're going to be fine."

He eventually drew back, holding her at arm's length. "Bri… what are you doing here?"

"Heard you were still feeling under the weather," she said, "and it's only been a few days since you were released from the medcenter. I figured you needed someone keeping an eye on you. It appears I was right."

"How did you get in? The door was locked."

She laughed. "It's been almost two months since you got back and you still haven't changed the entrance code. I thought security was more important to you."

She cocked her head. "I've been camping out on the couch outside since you went to bed. Figured I'd wake you up with a nice breakfast. In celebration of you surviving radiotherapy."

"Does Snake know you're here?"

Her smile vanished and she looked away. "He… uh, no. He doesn't."

"Is it smart for you to be here? Considering our history?"

"Galaar talks a big game, but he knows better than to muscle in on my personal stuff. Let me worry about him."

"I can't do that. My dreams… the worst ones are about you. About you being held hostage by those slavers on Dxun. Or being shot back on Mon Calamari. Remember?"

"Cin…"

"I can't," he said, shrinking away again. "It's… it's different now, Brianna. The dreams… they won't go away. Before, all I had to do was wake myself up and I was fine. But the other day, I was stuck like that for almost two hours. Woke up with a massive nosebleed and the migraine to end all migraines."

He stared at her. "Do you know how dangerous it is for me to do that? To be stuck in a psychometric nightmare for that long? I run the risk of a having a stroke. Or an aneurism. I could die in my sleep and not be able to do anything about it."

He shook his head. "If you hadn't come in when you did… tonight may have been that night."

"Don't talk like that."

"I can't help it," he hissed. "I… I can't stop this, Brianna. Being stuck with the Imperials… it changed things. About me. I can't stop thinking about Quorbus… and the tests… and…"

He let out a shaky breath, his whole body quivering. "I look at the people on the streets and all I see are potential Imperial plants, just waiting to turn me back in. Every comm call I make feels like it's being monitored. Every time those doctors in the medcenter came to take me to radiotherapy felt like I was being taken away to the Tests all over again."

He stared down at his hands, which were shaking so bad he could barely hold them steady enough to see in the darkness. He clenched them into fists. "I wasn't ready. When I tried to take on the Tracker… I wasn't ready to handle something like that. I was outmatched, plain and simple. And when they took me away…"

He looked up at her. "How do you prepare for something like that?"

Brianna shook her head. "I don't think you can, Cin. You just try and rebuild when it's over."

She held his gaze, growing very serious. "How did they keep this under control before? At the medcenter?"

"After I started screaming…" he shook his head. "They would sedate me. Just enough to keep me unconscious through the night. And Alix…"

He felt Brianna tense and he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't talk about her. Not after I raised such a fuss about Snake."

"No," Brianna said. "No, I'm fine. Go on. What did Vachiira do?"

He shook his head. "She… she would sit in the chair next to the bed all night and keep watch on my IV drip, to make sure it didn't happen again. Kind of like you camping out on the couch."

"I'm starting to like this girl a little more," she said. "Glad to see she kept an eye on my best friend."

"Best friend…" he echoed. "I'm sorry, but that sounds weird."

She laughed. "Yeah. Yeah it does."

He shifted back, folding his arms tight around his chest. "What should I do? About this? I can't sedate myself every night."

"Have you been meditating? I remember that helping in the past."

He nodded. "An hour every day. Two if I have the time."

"What about medications? Do you think they might have anything for this kind of problem?"

"I'm not sure how qualified the city medcenter is for treating Kiffar psychopathic disorders."

"Cin, you aren't crazy," she insisted. "You've never been crazy. And I'll fight anyone who tries to say otherwise. Okay?"

When he nodded silently, she squeezed his shoulder and said, "Can I get you anything? Some _tihaar_ to settle your nerves, maybe?"

He shook his head. "No… no, I think I'm fine. Thanks, Brianna. For… for everything."

She smiled, then leaned forward and gently kissed his forehead. "My pleasure, _Cin'ika_. Now try and get some rest. I'll be just outside, and I'll wake you up if you have any more nightmares."

She got up and stepped through the door, letting it close quietly behind her. He stared after her for a long time, staring at the darkened doorway for a long time. Then he settled back and folded his hands over his stomach, staring at the ceiling.

He stayed that way the rest of the night.

* * *

_Author's Note: Vhetin has never been one of those amnesiacs that slowly begins to remember his past (Jason Bourne or Wolverine come to mind) but that doesn't mean he doesn't struggle with remnant memories. His increasingly disturbing flashback nightmares will be a major part of his story for the foreseeable future._

_The next full installment of White Snow is forthcoming, and will probably be started soon. As always, reviews, comments, or critiques are always welcome._


	9. Introductions

**_Oyu'baat tapcaf_**

"And he flipped the speeder? Just smashed into the side of it?"

Jay nodded. "It wasn't the most fun I've had working with D."

Her companion, a Mandalorian woman by the name of Wad'e Rangir, shook her head as she sat back in her seat. A serving droid buzzed over to take their leftover dishes from lunch, then swiftly retreated back toward the kitchens. "And you're sure he's all right? The cyborg? He could still be getting signals from Caranthyr. Tech is sneaky that way."

Jay shook her head. "He's good. He's had his cannon powered down for a good month, just in case. He's anxious to get back to bounty hunting, but he wants to make up for what he did."

"I've seen the local news reports," Wad'e said. "He makes a good cam show, helping construction crews rebuild, hoisting up half-ton support girders like they were armfuls of firewood. Impressive, but that doesn't make him trustworthy."

Jay shrugged. "Caranthyr's in the wind. He hasn't been seen for going on two months. I think it's safe to assume his little coup is officially over. I don't think D'harhan is a risk anymore."

"For all our sakes, I hope you're right," Wad'e said. "If your big guy goes on the fritz again, I'm not sure we have enough firepower to take him down. I don't think anything short of an orbital shot from the _Hodayc_ will stop him."

"I don't think the Protectors are going to loan out their flagship to bombard their own home."

Rangir shrugged. "It's not out of the question. Protectors are authorized to do whatever is necessary to bring their targets down, whether it's on alien worlds or home turf."

Jay shuddered at the thought. "Don't give me that image. Keldabe's supposed to be a peaceful place, remember? Caranthyr's bombings tore this city apart enough already."

"All right. Just don't be surprised when your big reptilian friend starts acting all twitchy again." Wad'e glanced to the door and heaved a sigh. "I think it's time I was going. It was good seeing you again, Jay. Take care of yourself."

"You too, Wad'e," Jay replied. "I'll see you later."

The woman stood from her seat and retrieved her bucket from the floor next to their table. She secured it back over her head and nodded respectfully before she turned and left the tapcaf. Jay remained in her seat, staring out the window at the city outside. Things had returned to normal surprisingly quickly after the bombings. It wasn't even a Market Day and there were still people crowding the plaza outside.

Under normal circumstances, the sight would be an inspiring one. Mandalorians all across the city had banded together, volunteering their time and money to help rebuild what Caranthyr and his neo-Death Watch soldiers had destroyed. It had taken time, but the damage was slowly beginning to fade from Keldabe's streets. The repairs were patchwork and shoddy, but they blended in with the city's natural look almost perfectly.

She smiled and shook her head slightly. The camaraderie that the Mandalorians showed in healing their wounded city was inspiring, even to an _aruetii_ like her. If only more people acted in such a way, working together to rebuild.

She had to remind herself that while their current behavior was admirable, the Mandalorians had also given rise to Caranthyr and his men. Despite Shysa's claims to the contrary, the Death Watch _were _Mandalorians. The fact they wore different armor and fought for different reasons wasn't enough. They had the same upbringing, the same training, and the same methods. The Death Watch were Mandalorians with their sights turned against their own kind, rather than outward against _aruetiise_.

Maybe that was why most normal Mandos hated them so much.

Someone cleared their throat next to her table and she looked over to find the bartender, Aramis, waiting intently. He raised an eyebrow and growled, "Gonna pay for lunch? Or is it going on the tab?"

"I didn't know you gave credit to _aruetiise_," she said with a smile.

He snorted. "_Aruetiise?_ No. Not a chance. But you're not _aruetii_, Moqena. Not anymore. You're _mandokarla_. Wouldn't be sporting the _Jaig_ eyes otherwise."

She shook her head. "I'm not wearing the _Jaig_, Aramis. Not until Shysa presents them to me."

"Are you kidding? He said you deserve 'em, so you got 'em. Don't need Shysa to hand 'em to you to make it official."

Jay sighed. "I guess."

"Every recipient gets their own design, you know. Unless you're boring and just opt for the traditional swoops. You might end up liking them."

She nodded. "I've seen the designs. I like them, I really do. They're like… two birds swooping in for the kill."

"And that kind of thing revs your engine, then?"

She laughed. "My call sign back during my days as a pilot was _Phoenix_. So yeah. That revs my engine."

"Poetic justice, I guess," Aramis said with a shrug. "It suits you, Moqena."

"Thank you, but… I don't know. It seems like too big an honor for what I did."

"What you did was save our _leader_. And you think a pair of swoops to put on your coat is too much?"

"No, but…" She shook her head. "I know how important this is to your people, Aramis. And it's just…"

"Scary," he supplied. "Havin' all the big armored bounty hunters respecting you is scary. You're not used to it."

She sighed and stared out the window again. "I guess not…"

Eventually, he cleared his throat. "So are you gonna pay? Or put it on the tab?"

"Oh right." She reached into her jacket pocket and produced a small collection of credit chips. She tossed them to the old bartender, who tipped his head to her in thanks.

"It's good to have you back in town, Moqena. After what happened up at MandalMotors, I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks so."

Before he could turn and leave, she called him back. "Aramis… after the bombings, the news was crawling with reports about Caranthyr and the assassination attempt. What did they say about me?"

"On the rare occasions when you actually made it onto the news," Aramis said, "they said nothing but polite things, I promise. Keldabe's impressed with you, Moqena. They didn't expect an _aruetii_ to fight so hard to defend the Mandalore. As far as their concerned, you're the only reason we still _have_ a Mandalore."

"But it wasn't just me," she insisted. "What did they say about the others? Cin, for example?"

"Stripes?" Aramis shrugged. "Nothing."

"_Nothing_? But he and Brianna saved those people…"

"Brianna's an _aruetii_ who was doing a job. A job she was paid handsomely for, I might add. And Vhetin single-handedly botched up the counteroffensive in the sewers," Aramis said. "He saved a lot of people. But he also got a lot of people killed. Mandos don't look kindly on that."

"So they don't so much as give them a pat on the back?"

"Vhetin was publicly congratulated for his service in rescuing those hostages."

"You know what I mean," Jay said. "It's almost like everyone thinks he did something wrong during the operation. Like he failed."

Aramis sighed. "Stripes isn't the same as he was before he was snatched up by the Imps. And the Mandos in Keldabe know it now."

She scoffed. "He's still the same guy."

"Not to the people around here. Look at it from their perspective; he shows up again after three months during which everyone thinks he's dead. He's got some kind of mysterious disease that's can kill people if he's not careful. He's hanging out with cyborgs and Echani and other unsavory company, half of which end up working for Caranthyr – whether they wanted to or not – while that asshole is bombing the city left and right. Then the mission he's in charge of ends up killing a score of good souls and to top it all off, Caranthyr vanishes into the wind."

"And they hold that against him?"

He grimaced. "That's what happens when you choose to live in a society of bounty hunters, then lose a target. He's got a lot of ground to recover before his _vode_ see him in the same light they used to."

"And how do they see him now? His _vode_?"

Aramis grimaced. "He's… washed up. Weak. Playing at being a hero when he's not. They don't trust him anymore, if they ever did. And the shootout in the sewers only reinforced that."

"And what do you think?" Jay said, her face drawing down in a scowl. "Do you think he's dangerous? Weak?"

"I know Stripes. He's a good man. If he even _is_ a man under all that armor. He lives for this city and I know he'll do whatever it takes to keep it safe. There are a lot of Mandos around here who can claim the same, and to me that makes Vhetin… I dunno, just one of the boys."

He sighed, narrowing his eyes. "But… I think he's pushing himself too far. Trying to be something he's not. And it seems to be getting himself and a lot of other people hurt in the process. So, is he weak? No. Is he dangerous?"

The grizzled bartender tipped his head. "That one's harder to answer."

He hesitated, then turned away. "Thanks for the chips. Stay safe out there, Moqena."

"I plan to." She sighed and rested her arms on the tabletop, watching him head back to the bar. Then continued staring out the window, ruminating over what he had said.

So, Vhetin's fellows were slowly turning against him. Not surprising, considering recent events, but she couldn't pretend it wasn't upsetting. After his accident, he'd devoted everything he had to serving the Mandalorians. He wouldn't be happy to see that devotion thrown back in his face. He had tried his best, even in the sewers. He couldn't have known Caranthyr would have used suicide bombers, couldn't have known so many people would lose their lives.

_There are going to be situations_, he used to tell her during training, _where things happen that you don't see coming. You can't anticipate these situations, can't plan or expect what's going to happen. All you can do is react as quickly as possible and try to minimize the damage._

And Vhetin had done just that. He'd reacted as quickly as he could, pulling back the majority of the troops under his command and holding the rally point for as long as he could. He had minimized the damage as best he could, and saved several lives in the process. Caranthyr had killed those men, not Vhetin.

But had it all been enough? Apparently not to his fellow Mandalorians. She had always known they were strict, but she had no idea just how severe their ideas of _serving Mandalore_ truly were. Vhetin wasn't the kind to care about public laurels or awards, but was a simple acknowledgement of his sacrifices too much to ask?

She heard footsteps approaching her table and smiled a little. "Did I short you some change, Aramis?"

"Don't ask me," came a gravelly woman's voice. Definitely _not_ Aramis. "But if you're handing out credits, feel free to pass them over."

Jay turned to find an athletically-built, middle-aged woman sliding into the seat across from her. She was wearing traditional Mandalorian armor colored orange with yellow highlights and patterns across the smooth armor plating. She had dark brown hair shot through with strands of steel grey, pulled back in a tight braid. Her chiseled square face was lined with equal parts wrinkles and scars.

Jay frowned. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"I don't think so," the woman replied with a friendly smile. "But I know you."

Jay narrowed her eyes. "Do you now?"

"Oh, don't be so suspicious. I just meant that I saw you on the news. You're the _aruetii _who helped out the enforcement office hunting down that bastard Caranthyr."

"Yeah… yeah, that was me."

The woman smiled wider and reached across the table, holding out her hand. "Then I wanna shake your hand, miss. The name's Isabet Reau."

"Jay Moqena. Pleased to meet you." She shook the woman's hand, then sat back and folded her arms. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"I just want to get to know this up-and-coming hero. Not many of those around here."

"Evidently," Jay said. "I hear you Mandos don't even have a word for hero."

Isabet Reau chuckled and sat back, folding her hands in her lap and cocking her head to one side. "You got that right. But it's not every day an _aruetii_ stands out in such a fantastic manner."

She frowned curiously. "So why did you do it? Why did you fight so hard to defend Shysa?"

Jay shrugged and shook her head. "It wasn't really a conscious choice. When people are shooting at you, you tend to stick with the familiar guy with the gun rather than the stranger with one."

"_Oya_ to that. But… but why Shysa? Word from the _vode_ who were there says you stuck to him like glue. Why?"

"I don't know," Jay said honestly. "He's important. And Caranthyr wanted him dead. Seemed like the smart thing to do was to stop Caranthyr from getting what he wanted."

"So no politics involved? No desire for personal glory?"

She shook her head. "Not really my thing. I just wanted to stop the bad guy and save the day. Simple, really."

"Nothing could be further from _simple_," the other woman said, a hint of steel in her voice. "When you threw yourself in with Shysa, Miss Moqena, you threw yourself into a school of sharks. Keldabe may seem like nothing but shits and giggles on a normal day, but it's far more dangerous than you seem to understand."

Jay frowned. "What do you mean?"

Reau laughed. "Did you know that the last ten _Mand'alor'e_ we've had have all refused the job when it was first offered to them? Shysa even tried installing puppet Mandalores before he finally caved and took the job himself. It's been described as the single worst job a Mandalorian could accept."

The woman tapped a finger against the tabletop. "The position of Mandalore is not a position of power. You don't command legions or vaults of riches. The best he can do is suggest actions to the Council of Clans and hope _they _decide what to do. _That_ is the most power he commands.

"The position of _Mand'alor_ is a very important job," Reau continued. "But it's one that commands less power – and far less respect – than any _aruetii_ can imagine. Shysa's contribution to this city is a _very_ simple one: he's a scapegoat_. _Nothing more."

Jay frowned. "So why did he even accept?"

"Because the Mandalorians need scapegoats. We have warriors, tacticians, builders, bounty hunters, and all the rest. But too many like-minded warriors in one place get themselves into trouble. And when that happens, they need a single figure to rally behind, to lay all the blame upon, so they can feel better and continue doing what they do best."

"I don't understand."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Mandalore the Ultimate was a renowned warrior, and arguably the most famous leader we've had to date. But you really think his plans for galactic domination were his alone? No. _His people_ wanted to expand. _His people_ wanted to conquer. But _his people_ couldn't find the strength to organize themselves, so they needed someone to do it for them, someone to be the boogeyman to the outside world that they could never be. And as soon as that happened, all the reports were suddenly saying _Mandalore the Ultimate_ is conquering worlds. _Mandalore the Ultimate_ is slaughtering innocents."

She smiled. "And the soldiers? They. Just. Keep. Working. Away. Why question the morals of what you're doing when it's all your leader's idea? Why take responsibility for yourself when you've got someone in power who takes it all for you? Or at least that's what they tell themselves. Like dumb banthas in a herd, choosing to run off the side of a cliff then blaming the biggest one for taking the first jump."

She leaned back. "That's Shysa's position. To take the blame when Mandalorians get a little too trigger-happy offworld. To take responsibility when we're forced to make unfair treaties and alliances with an Empire that wants to grind us under its heel. So you can understand why I'm finding it a little hard to understand why you were fighting to protect the Grand Scapegoat. Even if your reasoning is, _just 'cause._"

"I… I didn't know," Jay said with a frown. "I thought Shysa was… I don't know, more important than that."

"Oh, he and his lackeys will probably spin a different story," Reau said. "But I've lived here for a very long time. I've seen three different _Mand'alor'e_ in my time here and I know how things work.

"As a scapegoat," she said, "Shysa is a target for every thug with a gun who has a score to settle against the people at large. Removing him does no damage to the Mandalorians and their ways, but sends a clear message that they're unhappy with the way things are. That's what Caranthyr was planning. A political assassination without any of the blowback. Simple. Easy."

Jay listened intently, narrowing her eyes as Reau continued, "Caranthyr was just that kind of thug. And you stood in his way. In that moment, you drew a line in the sand and showed everyone in Keldabe where you stand. And in doing so, you made yourself a target for all the rest of the thugs out there who think the way Caranthyr did."

She pointed a finger at Jay's face, aiming it right at between her eyes. "Now they'll all be sighting in on that pretty little head of yours, just waiting to make an example of you. So when I said you were swimming with sharks, I meant it."

Jay frowned. "That sounds like a threat."

"Call it an observation," Reau replied. "I don't need to threaten someone who's already in danger."

The bell over the _Oyu'baat_'s door rang and Reau glanced over her shoulder. Jay likewise looked to find the newcomer and saw Janada Bralor, dressed in her oilstained MandalMotors coveralls, stepping through the door. Jay waved at her and the engineer started making her way to their table. When her eyes fell on Reau, however, her eyes widened and her face drained of all color.

She approached their table slowly, hands clenched into fists. "Jay. Nice to see you."

She looked over at the yellow-armored woman with a swiftly-growing scowl. "It's so nice of you to slum it out with the rest of us normal folk, Clanmaster Reau. Or is it Vizsla? I can never remember."

"_Clanmaster_?" Jay echoed. She stared at the older woman. "You're the head of a clan?"

"The Reau-Vizsla," the woman said. "Yes. Does that surprise you? We're allowed to walk the streets on our own like everyone else, you know."

"I just-"

"I think you should leave," Janada interrupted. "Now."

"But I was having such a nice conversation with Miss Moqena here. I think I'll stay."

"_No_. You'll leave. Now."

"Janada-"

The woman raised a single finger in warning. "All due respect, Jay, but shut up."

She bent over, putting herself almost nose-to-nose with Reau. "You are going to stand up and walk out of this bar. Right now."

Reau smirked, but slowly stood from her chair, never once breaking eye contact with the shorter woman. "And if I don't? If I decide to stay right here and keep talking with my friend, what are you going to do, _Umaan_?"

"That's not my name any more," Janada snarled, still only inches away from Reau. "And she is _not_ your friend. Get out. _Now_!"

The shout drew gazes from all over the tapcaf, and all the gentle conversation grew suddenly silent. Jay could hear shifting armor plating and clinking mugs as people shifted to watch what was going on. She glanced between the two women, hands unknowingly clenched into fists in her lap.

Reau smiled wider and cocked her head. "You think you're some big-shot, Janada? Someone important? You're not. You're a whiny little bitch who covers up her childish tears by pretending to be strong. You hide behind your loyalty to your people, hoping that if it comes to it they'll take a blaster bolt for you. Just like your parents did."

Janada moved before Jay could stop her. In an instant her fist flashed up and there was a sickening _crack_ that sent Reau's head reeling. There were a few muffled gasps from around the tapcaf, but no one moved to intervene, all eyes fixed on Reau and her reaction to the punch.

When the older woman straightened, blood was pouring from her nose. But instead of striking back, she just wiped the blood away and stared down at it. Then she let out a short chuckle and looked back up.

"Little Jan Umaan," she laughed. "Whipping out your fists whenever things don't go your way."

She leaned close and hissed, "Do us all a favor? _Grow up_."

Janada narrowed her eyes, but slowly stepped away. "Get out, Reau."

Reau bowed her head with another smug smile, her heavy bootsteps echoing through the entire cantina as she stepped past the shorter woman. "I'll give my regards to your aunt the next time I see her. You can be sure Rav will hear of this."

"Make sure you don't leave out the part where I broke your fucking nose!" Janada called after the woman as she stepped through the front door. The silence in the tapcaf was momentarily shattered as the door slammed shut behind her, shaking the bell over the doorframe.

After Reau disappeared outside, the gentle murmur of conversation slowly returned. People turned back to their food and drinks and Aramis returned to washing dishes. Janada, meanwhile, whirled back to Jay and hissed, "What the _hell _are you playing at?"

"What are you talking about?"

"_What are you talking about?"_ Janada scornfully echoed. She threw herself into the chair Reau had just deserted and slammed her fist against the table. "Do you have any _idea_ who that bitch was? What she _represents_?"

"I have no idea," Jay said with a frown. "I'm guessing something bad."

"The _worst_. That's Isabet Reau, clanmaster of the Reau-Vizsla. The _Vizsla_, Jay. Does that mean _anything _to you?"

"The name sounds familiar, but I don't-"

"Forty years ago," Janada snapped, "a renegade Mandalorian clanmaster defies the control of _Mand'alor_ Jaster Mereel. He gathers all his like-minded followers and raises an army to wipe the galaxy clean of Mereel's followers. The Mandalorian Civil War. One of the bloodiest conflicts our people have ever seen. And you wanna know the name of that clanmaster? _Tor Vizsla_. You wanna know who he led? The _kriffing Kyr'tsad_."

"The Death Watch?" Jay said, instinctively lowering her voice. She knew how sensitive Mandalorians were on the subject.

"Exactly," Janada hissed. "The woman you were having a nice chat with? His granddaughter-in-law. And she's heir to the family business."

"You can't know that."

"No," Janada said. "But I don't give a damn. She's a kriffing Vizsla. And that means someday, I'm going to put a blaster bolt between her eyes."

"Why?" Jay said.

"Never mind _why_. Just-"

"No," Jay interrupted. "If you're reacting like this, I think I deserve to know. Why do you hate them so much? What did they ever do to you?"

"I don't like… I haven't…"

Janada fell silent, staring at the tabletop. After a few moments she murmured, "You heard her call me Umaan? That was my original name. Bralor was just something I picked up when I was adopted into the new clan. _Janada Naya Umaan_. My family was based out of Sriluur, a planet far away from here."

She sighed. "But when the Clone Wars broke out, my clan got the call. Organize, arm yourselves, and head off to fight for the Confederacy of Independent Systems."

"The Separatists? Your family fought for the Separatists?"

"The CIS was an army," Janada murmured. "One of many. We Mandos were all over the Clone Wars. The Umaans fought for the Confederacy, the Skiratas fought for the Republic, the Bralors couldn't make up their damn minds, and the Shysas sat here on Mandalore twiddling their thumbs."

She shook her head. "My clan left Sriluur to go fight the battles the CIS couldn't handle with their army of tin men. And my parents… they left me, with my baby sister. Can't have kids running around a military operation, right?"

"Janada, that's awful."

"That's Mandalorian parenting. I was ten years old."

"_Ten_?"

"I'd been training under Mandalorian custom since I was four," Janada said. "I could already fight better than most adults. I understood why my parents had to leave. I could handle it. I was proud that they thought I was responsible enough to take care of us myself. And my sister needed me."

"But-"

"My parents loved us," Janada said. "And it was only because they loved us that they left us. They couldn't take us to war with them and they didn't trust any of the native Weequay to place nice with their kids. So they left me in charge. Better to have a Mandalorian – even a young one – in charge of the family holdings."

"So… how do the Vizsla factor into this?"

Janada clenched her hands together on the tabletop. "A few months into the Clone Wars, my parents – my Clan – were deployed on Mimban. Entrenched Republic troops, native resistance, all stuck in the middle of a boggy jungle... It was a nightmare, from what I've been able to gather. And after months of fighting, the CIS didn't think the Umaans could get the job done. So they hired the Vizsla to support them. And…"

She shook her head. "Apparently the Vizsla were underwhelmed with the way my clan had dealt with the Mimban battle. They wanted to be in control. So they led my clan into an ambush. They were surrounded by clone troops, pinned down by enemy fire. And the Vizsla left them there."

She snapped her fingers. "My entire clan. Gone. The clone troopers were… efficient. And the Vizsla used the distraction to rip out the Republic troops and send them running with their tails between their legs. A _calculated sacrifice_, they called it_._ Like my family was a piece on a _kriffing_ dejarik board."

She reached up and undid the top two buttons of her MandalMotors uniform, pulling a thin chain necklace from under her collar. Dangling from the end were two thin rectangles of with red, blinking lights. She held them out to Jay, shaking them for emphasis. "You know what these are?"

Jay swallowed nervously, then nodded. "Armor tabs. Mandalorians keep them to… to remember fallen comrades."

"Or family. They were all that I got back from my parents after they were killed."

She gestured over her shoulder, to the door Reau had just left through. "That woman, and members of her clan, _murdered_ my family. And they never even got a stern word because of it. Because it was a _calculated sacrifice_. The Umaans were just soldiers, doing their jobs."

She shook her head, tucking her necklace out of sight again. "Mandalorians aren't just soldiers. The Umaans weren't _just soldiers_. They were fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters. Farmers and artists and… and…"

She sighed and glared up at Jay. "That woman is _dangerous_, Jay. Her and all her kin. So you stay away from her or I'm sure you'll end up just like my family. And… and I don't want to see that happen."

Jay nodded. "Okay. Okay, I won't talk to her again. It wasn't like I was all that interested in talking to her in the first place. I didn't even know who she was until you came in."

"Well now you know. So stay away from her."

"I will."

"Good." Janada heaved a sigh of relief. She flattened her hands against the tabletop and took a long, deep breath. Then she cursed and said, "After all that, I need a kriffing drink."

She glanced over her shoulder. "Aramis! Get me a mug of your worst stuff. Something that burns on the way down."

The old barkeep chuckled. "After you clocked Reau like that? Hell, I'll get you two."

* * *

_Author's Note: __I think with this chapter, the post-_Contention _installments of Off Duty are finished! The official start of _Isolation _will begin a few months after this chapter, but the stage is pretty much set for the next adventure. :D_

_And I finally managed to post this at a time __earlier __than two in the morning! Go me!_


	10. Blue (Post-Isolation)

**_Oyu'baat _****tapcaf, Keldabe**

"_Blue_!"

Tamai barely had time to react before she was all but tackled by a short but powerful woman in heavy red armor. She staggered back as the woman hugged her tightly, driving their helmets together with a sharp _crack_.

Tamai staggered back, ears ringing from the blow. As she recoiled, the red-armored woman hopped back and held her at arm's length for study.

"_Osik_, you look good for a dead woman!"

Tamai cursed and pulled her helmet off, rubbing her forehead. "It's nice to see you too, Janada."

"It's been _way_ too long since you've been in town, girl." Janada followed suit, pulling her helmet off and clipping it to her belt. She was grinning almost from ear to ear. "What's it been, five years?"

"Something like that." Tamai couldn't hold back a smile of her own at her friend's enthusiasm. "It's good to be back."

"Just how did Stripes manage to convince you to trek this far north?"

Vhetin stepped up next to Tamai's shoulder. "I made her an offer she couldn't refuse."

Tamai nudged him in the ribs. "You wish. You're not _that_ good in bed."

He cleared his throat awkwardly and didn't say more. Janada, meanwhile, threw her head back and laughed.

"Nice to see you're still as prickly as always. Well, don't just stand there like _di'kut'e _with your pants around your ankles. Sit down, sit down! I'll get Aramis to bring some drinks around."

She slapped her palm against the tabletop and called, "Aramis! Two mugs of your strongest stuff for the prodigal blonde over here!"

Aramis nodded, grim as always, and began pouring. Janada quickly turned back to the table and leaned forward excitedly.

"So how long are you in town, Blue?"

"A few months at least," Tamai replied. "This counterterrorism training isn't quick or easy. After that… I don't know. Back to the frontier I guess."

Janada's sharp eyes didn't miss the way Cin's shoulders slumped in disappointment at the news. But – contrary to popular opinion – she knew when to keep her nose out of other people's business. She let the motion pass for the moment and instead focused on the conversation at hand.

"So are the rumors true?" she asked. "Were you and Cin caught up in that mess down in the _Werda Kurs_?"

Tamai frowned at her. "Technically it's classified."

"Kriff that. I want to know the truth."

"We were," Vhetin said, wisely deciding it wasn't worth arguing with her. "Our patrol found the Taung. More than that, we can't say."

"Fair enough. So what was it like? Fighting the ancestor race?"

Tamai scowled and hunched lower over the table. "Everyone's rejoicing to see the Taung back. I just wish they'd stayed hidden."

"Why?"

"My team…" the blond woman took a breath. "They were wiped out by a Taung attack. It was before we made peace. My friends were all slaughtered, probably with their hearts ripped out like the other prisoners."

She looked up and held Janada's gaze. "I'm not as opposed to the Taung as Norac Benz. I don't want to kill them all or start some war between our people. But I definitely don't think them moving back into Mandalorian society is a good idea. I just want them to go back to their jungles and disappear again."

"Completely understandable. Without true _skira, _some wounds never heal completely." Janada knew that better than most. She looked to her brother. "And what about you, _vod_? You want the Old Ones to scurry back into the trees and never show their mangy faces again?"

Vhetin hesitated, then shook his head. "I don't think so. The Taung's return can only strengthen both sides. With such powerful warriors returning to the forefront, maybe Keldabe will calm down. I don't think a freak like Caranthyr would have tried to blow half the city to hell if he knew that there would be Taung coming after him."

He folded his arms across his chest. "But that doesn't mean I trust them. I saw them rip out the hearts of innocent, unarmed Mandalorians just because their _Mand'alor_ told them to. I know how dangerous they can be. We need them for now, but that doesn't mean we should trust them"

Tamai nodded slowly. "A very practical viewpoint, I guess."

"Well, enough of that," Janada said, waving her hands as if shooing away such somber subject matter. "You're _finally _back in town, Tamai. We should be celebrating!"

Tamai chuckled. "And just how do you propose we do that?"

"There are a few new dives in town that opened since you were last here. I could give you the grand tour! We could invite Jay and that Echani, too! We could make an entire night of it!"

The blonde grinned, but shook her head. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass. I'm due back at the Ranger outpost in a few hours and I'll be expected at training first thing tomorrow morning."

Janada narrowed her eyes. "Have you gone soft on me, Blue? You must have been gone longer than I thought if you're suddenly jumping to follow the rules. When did you become a champion boot-licker?"

"I didn't! I just… have responsibilities now."

The way Tamai's gaze shifted away made everything suddenly cluck into place. Janada instantly knew why Tamai was so hesitant to go out on the town. "Oh, I see... You're afraid of running across a certain Coruscanti woman who also lives here. Right?"

Tamai shot her a sarcastic thumbs-up. Janada frowned at the two in front of her and rested her forearms on the table. "So does Brianna know about you two yet? I'm assuming no."

Vhetin shook his head, obviously uncomfortable. "Not yet. I… haven't gotten around to telling her."

"Right. Might want to rectify that sooner than later. She's got ears in this town, you know."

"Why?" Tamai said, a definite edge to her voice. "Why should we tell her about our private affairs?"

"She and Stripes were together a long time, Blue," Janada pointed out. "Long enough that subjects like marriage and kids were being thrown around. You really want her finding out about you two from a third party?"

"You… have a point," Tamai grumbled.

"I'll talk to her," Vhetin assured them both. "I promise."

"Good," Janada said, comforted by the knowledge that the hotheaded Coruscanti huntress wouldn't put a blaster bolt through her brother any time soon. "In the meantime, you have a place to stay, Blue? There's always a cot open in my apartment. _Te Manda _knows Tranyc would love to see her favorite aunt again."

Tamai smiled at the mention of Janada's younger sister, but shook her head. "No, thanks. Cin's already set me up at the bastion."

"Oh really?" Janada raised her eyebrows. "You two are that cozy already? You move fast."

"Side-effect of living in the jungle," Tamai said, only blushing a little. "You have to seize your moments quick; you may not get more."

"_Oya_ to that."

Janada thanked Aramis as he finally brought them their drinks – Vhetin had respectfully passed, as he refused to remove his helmet in public. Once the grizzled bartender had moved on to the next table, she turned back to Tamai and cocked her head.

"I'm glad you're back, Blue," she said. "I missed you, all these years."

"I'll bet. What kind of trouble can you really get into without the _Mand'alor_'s niece at your side?"

"You'd be surprised, actually," Vhetin said. "Jan's been busy."

The red-armored woman pointed a finger at Tamai. "And I expect to see you on the MandalMotors R-and-D floor within the next few days. That bullshit gear may be good for jungle slogs, but you're in the big city now. I won't have any sister of mine walking around looking like a half-melted pile of slag."

"I don't think it's that bad," Tamai said, looking down at her battle-scared blue armor. "And I'm not your sister."

Janada shrugged. "Only a matter of time before I wear you down and you finally let me adopt you. But I'm serious; I'm giving you a kit upgrade within the week."

"Best to just give in," Vhetin said. "She's relentless."

"All right, all right," Tamai finally said. She shook her head with a laugh. "I'll be in tomorrow afternoon for fitting measurements. Thanks for taking an interest."

"You're family," Janada said simply. "And that means you dress in only the best. At the very least, you'll actually add some color coordination to your gear. Cin keeps insisting on that dull black and gray."

She feigned a gagging noise, while Vhetin sighed and muttered, "For the last time, I _like_ my color scheme."

"But why won't you at least _try_ the Bralor black-red?"

"Because my gear is fine the way it is!"

Tamai shook her head with a chuckle and leaned back in her chair. "Fierfek, I've missed the two of you."

"And it's damn good to have you back," Janada said. She reached across the table and raised her mug in toast.

"To the gang getting back together," she said.

Tamai raised her glass as well, while Vhetin chuckled and bowed his head in acknowledgement. Janada tipped her head back and downed half her mug in one go before slamming the cup down on the tabletop. Tamai followed her a few seconds later.

"All right," Janada said. "Time to get serious."

"All right," Tamai said in a mock-serious tone, narrowing her eyes.

"I want all the dirt on Gracya. I heard the bitch cheated on you?"

Tamai rolled her eyes. "Oh, like you would not believe! It sounds like something from a bad holovid."

"Then spill it, Blue! We haven't got all night!"

* * *

_Author's Note: It was a lot of fun to write Tamai and Janada together. The two have a very sisterly relationship and are very good friends. It's nice to see everyone getting along for once. :D_

_I also have to apologize for the long delay in posting. I've been sick as a dog the past week and haven't been able to write at all beyond supplying articles for my job. As soon as I'm back in the swing of things, my writing will pick up again. Thanks for the patience._


	11. Frustration

**Vhetin's bastion, Keldabe Forest**

"Son of a _bitch!"_

Vhetin's voice was followed by a loud crash from the entryway. The resounding thud of something heavy hitting the ground confirmed that he'd thrown his helmet with all his considerable might. Tamai looked up from her workstation on the floor of the _karyai_ as he stormed into the room. His helmet was indeed missing and a furious scowl was plastered across his face.

She debated whether she should engage him when he was so obviously upset – particularly when he made straight for the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of _net'ra gal_. He pried the cap off with his gauntlet blade, his eyes so full of fire that it looked like he had just walked out of a gun battle.

She eventually decided to risk speaking up. "Umm… You do remember you can't get drunk, right?"

"Can't blame a guy for trying," he snarled, tipping his head back and downing half the bottle in one go.

"Bad day at work?"

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "The worst. Just got passed up for _another _hunting contract by one of my informants. That makes five in the last week."

"What's going wrong?"

"The kriffers don't trust me! Half found different private contractors during the three months I was held captive, while the _other_ half think I'm some kind of Imperial spy _posing_ as Cin Vhetin!"

He shook his head and finished off the second half of the bottle. Once finished, he tossed the bottle carelessly into the sink. "It's insane. How am I supposed to keep my reputation clean if no one will kriffing _hire _me?"

"I'm sure they'll come around," she said as he threw himself onto the couch. "What about Jay? Does she have anything for you?"

"Not for me," he sighed. He rubbed his eyes wearily. "She's getting job offers left and right, but for solo missions. Specifically asking her to not bring a partner."

"Ouch."

"Yeah," he muttered. "Ouch."

"I'm sure she'd want you along if she could work it out."

"I know," he sighed. "It's just… this is what I _do_, Tamai. And if I can't do my job… what good am I?"

"Hey," she said, moving up to the couch and putting an arm around his shoulders, "you're still you, contracts or not. And even if your informants never trust you again, you can just find different people who will."

"That's easier said than done, Tamai."

"I'm being serious. You're more than your job, Cin. More than…" she gestured to his armor, "all of this. And just because you can't hunt bounties doesn't make you worthless."

"A hunter who can't hunt? That's pretty much the definition of worthless."

"Well you're not. Not to _te mando'ade_…" she leaned closer and gave him a short kiss. "And not to me."

He fell silent, mulling over her words. Eventually he just sighed and gestured to the messy collection of flimsiplast documents and datapads that littered the _karyai _floor. "What are you up to?"

"Counterterrorism training," she said, moving back to her original place at the center of the mess. "You wouldn't believe the homework. It's like being back at the Academy."

"What do they have you studying?"

"Right now? Mostly clan history. The actual combat training requires a more hands-on approach."

He cocked his head. "What good does clan history do?"

"Well," she said, trying to organize a stack of flimsiplast reports, "Tobbi Dala was seriously freaked out by Caranthyr and his bombers. He's convinced that the next big terrorist threat is going to come from within. His theory is that if we can understand the various rivalries between the clans, we might get an idea of who'll snap next."

"He suspects the Death Watch?"

She hesitated. "In a manner, I guess. Caranthyr made a lot of boasts, but there's nothing officially tying his attempted rebellion to any kind of resurgent Death Watch movement. At least not yet. It hasn't stopped Dala from going off the deep end, though. He had us running drills all yesterday about how to properly and effectively engage fellow Mandalorians in hand-to-hand combat."

"That's a cheery subject."

She hunched her shoulders and imitated Dala's threatening growl. "The neck, underarms, ribs, and the back of the leg. Those are the armor's weak points. Don't forget 'em, or you'll regret it."

She shook her head. "I know he's basically Uncle Fenn's brother and that makes him part of my family, but I just can't stand him sometimes."

"I think everyone in Keldabe shares that sentiment," Vhetin said with a dry smile. "Shysa included."

She shook her head and stared around at all the scattered documents and flashing datapads that surrounded her. "Do you…" she paused, hesitant to even broach the subject. "Do you really think there could be another attack?"

"I think it's inevitable at this point. The terrorists didn't manage to kill Shysa, but they got pretty damn close. We all walked away from that fight with plenty of bruises. Our enemies saw that clear as day."

A sigh from her. "I was worried you were going to say that."

"Why is it so upsetting? You've probably seen much worse fighting on the frontier."

"That's different," she insisted. "That's just… I don't know, raiders and beasts. Maybe an overconfident foreigner from time to time. It's nothing like this. Nothing like Mando fighting Mando."

One of her datapads beeped, signaling that it had finished downloading the necessary curriculum. Scrolling across the screen were the ancient logs of Clan Kelborn – one of the many Clans on Tobbi Dala's watch list.

"I guess," she said, resting the pad in her lap, "I've seen enough dead _vode_ to last a lifetime. I just want the constant fighting to stop."

She turned in her makeshift workstation and faced Vhetin. She hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. "Do you ever feel that way too?"

A tired look darkened his pale blue eyes. "Every single day."

"And… what would you do? If you didn't _have_ to be a bounty hunter?"

"I honestly don't know. Hunting is… well, it's literally all I've ever known. I don't know what use I'd be doing anything else. I guess maybe I'd be a farmer like Rame?"

She laughed. "You? Herding nerfs and planting crops? I don't think so."

He chuckled as well. "I guess it does seem pretty silly. But it's the only plan I have. What about you?"

"Are you kidding?" she grinned mischievously at him and flipped her hair down over her eyes. Just like the fems on Coruscant were wearing it, apparently. "You can't imagine this face gracing all the latest holomagazines? Think of it: _Tamai Vasser, superstar musician continues to astound! _Oh, Nar Shadda would just _love_ me."

Another laugh from him. "I can think of worse fates. Just promise that if this whole bounty hunting thing doesn't work out, I can land a job as one of your roadies."

She grinned and straightened her hair. "Promise. You can even have a place on the speeder bus with me."

"How generous."

She turned back to her work. "Just think of it as incentive to stay with me and not run off with some other singer."

"Run away from a voice like yours?" he scoffed. "The gods would strike me deaf on the spot for such a travesty."

"Flatterer."

He rose and headed off deeper into the bastion. At the doorway leading back to the kitchen, he paused and turned back to her.

"Tamai?"

"Hmm?"

He hesitated, staring at his boots. Then he held her gaze and said, "I'm glad you're here. Not just with me, but… It's good to have a friendly face during all of this. I'm happy you're back, even if it is only temporary."

"Me too, Stripes," she said with a smile. After he disappeared down the hall, she turned back to her homework and the smile faded to a worried frown. "Me too…"

* * *

_Author's Note: I decided to vent some of my own frustration regarding the search for employment by putting Vhetin through the same problem. After three months MIA, he's lost a lot of ground, and his lack of traction is something I think a lot of people (myself included) can relate to._


	12. A Meeting of Minds

**Norg Bral, Mandalore**

The air whipped hard and cold around the scattered collection of half-domed buildings that made up Norg Bral. The ancient fortress seemed deserted, the turtle-like structures sprawling alone amid the seemingly endless snowfields that surrounded them. Dark clouds hung overhead, threatening to spill even more snow before the day's end.

The frigid wind tossed a scarlet cape about as Clanmaster Sola'or Kelborn strode through the snow, toward the main entrance to the _yaim. _Her battle spear was clutched in one hand, held like a royal scepter. She had removed her mask and hood as a sign of respect, and the bitter northern air seeped into her skin and stung her cheeks. Her short black hair was tugged by the wind and she had to narrow her eyes against a spray of early snowflakes.

Two Mandalorians in blood-red armor flanked the doorway to the centermost and largest building. They looked half-frozen from the cold, but their weapons were still charged and held at the ready. Kelborn came to a halt in front of them and planted the butt of her spear in the snow at her feet.

"She's expecting me," was all she said.

One of the guards put a hand to his helmet-mounted comlink. After a few moments – and more than a few terse nods – he once again shouldered his rifle and gestured over his shoulder.

"She's waiting for you."

Kelborn grasped her weapon and moved into the building without another word. As she passed, she heard the two gate guards muttering, obviously believing she was out of earshot.

"That was really her? She's… shorter than I imagined."

"I'm surprised she actually came alone. You know the company she keeps. Untrustworthy folk."

Kelborn scowled and ignored them. She was well aware of her current reputation, but could care less what her fellow Mandalorians thought of her. Everything she did – including her current meeting – was for the good of her clan. Everything else was a secondary concern.

More red-armored Mandalorians were waiting inside. They were dirty and haggard-looking; no doubt tired from the toils of subsistence farming this far north. Their armor was spattered with mud or dusted with a light coat of snow.

A few bowed their heads or nodded in greeting as she passed, showing respect for her rank as a Clanmaster. The majority of them, however gawked or gossiped as she made her way deeper into the bastion. She doubted a Kelborn had been seen this far north in a thousand years.

Only one had the courage to stop her. A woman, clad in red armor with stylized black highlights, stepped in front of her and blocked her path. She folded her arms across her chest and fixed her with a defiant glare.

"We don't take kindly to southern visitors up here, Sola."

Kelborn cocked her head. "I announced my arrival over an hour ago, Vhonte. Most wouldn't show that kind of courtesy."

"Why do you want to see my sister?"

"We have business to discuss."

She heard the murmurs start again. Hisses of "_Kyr'tsad_," or "_aru'etal." _Like before, she ignored them – though not without effort.

She focused her attention on the woman in front of her. Despite her best efforts, she found her hard, determined expression softening. "It's… good to see you again, Vhonte. It's been a long time."

Vhonte Tervho nodded, still looking grim. "Too long. But I don't let just anyone see my sister on a whim, old friend or no."

"Oh, stop fussing over me like I'm some fragile antique," came a harsher, gravelly voice from further down the hall. "I'm not that old. Not yet."

Kelborn craned her neck to see further into the bastion. Another woman was approaching, sporting armor nearly identical to Tervho's. Her helmet was clipped to her belt, revealing stark white hair and a deeply lined face. She was walking with a cane, but Kelborn knew from personal experience that the woman could move just fine without it; also, the cane housed a concealed _beskar _shortsword.

Sola bowed her head in respect. "I greet you with respect and honor, Rav. It is a privilege to stand before you."

Clanmaster Rav Bralor, leader of the ancient and powerful Bralor family, waved her wrinkled hand dismissively. "Let's skip past all the ceremony and pleasantries, Sola. You've traveled too far for all the pomp and circumstance."

Kelborn flexed her grip on her spear. "Very well. May we speak somewhere more private?"

Rav nodded in agreement. But as Kelborn moved to follow her down the hall, the old warrior added, "But Vhonte comes with me. Whatever you have to say to me, she can hear too."

Kelborn's jaw tightened, but she agreed. This was Bralor territory, after all. She would play by their rules for now.

Rav Bralor led them to a small room that was just off the main hall. After shooing away a knot of inquisitive children, the elderly woman settled herself into a chair at a small round table and offered the other to Sola.

Kelborn took the offered seat and leaned her spear against the wall next to her. Tervho took the wall next to the door and folded her arms expectantly. Rav shifted and settled more comfortably in her seat.

"Mistress Kelborn," she sighed. "You've come a long way. The last time I saw you, you were just a lowly hunter. Now you sit before me, a full Clanmaster. Quite the success story you are."

"It's been over five years," Sola said. "A lot can happen."

"Hmm. So it can. But just because I'm a little behind doesn't mean I'm in the dark." Clanmaster Bralor leaned forward and folded her hands on the tabletop. "I know why you're here."

"Oh?"

Bralor nodded. "I got word from the other old _Cuy'val Dar _folks that're still kicking. It seems you and your _burc'ya_, Isabet Reau, have been doing the rounds. Talking up all sorts of folk about joining your little militia."

"I won't apologize for the alliances I must make." Kelborn mirrored her fellow Clanmaster's stance, linking her hands together on the table. "What the Reau-Vizsla are doing is unprecedented, Rav. Four clans are now operating as a single familial unit, unfettered by petty jealousies and blood feuds."

Tervho snorted, but said nothing. Kelborn glanced at her, shooting her a warning glare before continuing. "Isabet Reau is far from perfect. I'll be the first one to line up and preach that. But she's offering us a real shot at something incredible. Not just banding together to glare at the Imperials, but real inter-Clan cooperation. Lasting strength through interdependence. _Unity_."

Rav raised an eyebrow. "Ambitious. But it's not exactly like the Clans are at each other's throats as it is. The Supercommando Codex keeps everyone in line."

"The Codex is failing, Rav," Kelborn said. "Or did you forget about Coro Caranthyr's little rampage? You're a fool if you think something like that won't happen again."

"Mind your place, Kelborn," Tervho growled from the wall. "You may be a Clanmaster, but you're in Bralor territory. Get a civil tongue in your head."

Kelborn quickly bowed her head and backed down. "I meant no disrespect. But the gist of my statement is still true. The unrest in Keldabe is spreading; people don't trust Shysa to stand up to the Imperials. They can't do anything to change it, so they're starting to take their aggression out on each other."

"And Isabet Reau's boat is safer?"

"Think about it," Sola pressed. "Your people have suffered under the yoke of poverty for over a century. You live in the dirt, surviving off of subsistence farming while the bulk of your warriors flee Norg Bral at the earliest opportunity. For _te Manda's_ sake, you don't even _live_ here, Rav!"

"Your point?"

"The Bralors were once the shining jewel of the Mandalorian Clans; feared, respected warriors. And if you allied with the Reau-Vizsla Coalition, you could pull the Bralors _out _of this mire and back into those glory days. You could rebuild your Clan into something strong, a family that could last a thousand more years."

"You're starting with that high-and-mighty speech again, Sola," Rav said, a note of dry humor in her voice. "Keep your words short, so us simple northern folk can understand."

"Simply put, then," Kelborn said. "Isabet Reau is well-deserving of the title of Queen Bitch. But she's doing real good for her people and mine."

She leaned back in her chair. "She could do the same for your people as well."

Rav nodded slowly, rubbing her chin and pondering her words. Sola waited in silence, allowing the elderly Clanmaster to come to terms with the proposition. She traded several glances with Tervho, but didn't speak.

Eventually, Rav clapped her palms against the tabletop. "Well here's the way I see things. Your clan is still held in high esteem, and an alliance – even one of your fancy _unifications_ – would be far from a bad thing. A Bralor-Kelborn alliance would be the talk of the entire planet, and would strengthen both our families."

A smile tugged at Sola's lips. But Rav's next words quickly robbed her satisfaction.

"But," the Bralor Clanmaster continued, "I wouldn't just be allying with you. I'd be allying with the Reaus, the Vizsla, the Priests, and – if rumor is to be trusted – the Berserkers as well. And those are alliances I'm not too hasty to jump to."

Sola frowned and moved to speak again, but Rav wasn't finished.

"Allying with your clan would do good. But if I allied with these others… members of my clan would have issues with that. A _lot _of members of my clan."

"Janada's head would probably explode at the mere thought," Tervho said.

"There's just too much bad blood between these clans. If the point of unification is to put an end to the fighting, that isn't the way to go."

"We aren't the bad guys, Rav," Sola pressed. "All of Keldabe could whisper _Kyr'tsad_. It wouldn't make it any less of a lie."

"I applaud your legendary dedication, Kelborn," Rav said. "But the answer's still no. I don't give a damn about the _Kyr'tsad. _What I care about is the warriors under my charge keeping their guns holstered and their swords in the sheath. We have more important concerns: keeping people warm, fed, and protected."

"I…" Kelborn scowled. 'I can't argue with your reasoning, much as I'd like to."

She stood from the table. Reaching into the pouch on her belt, she pulled free her _beskar _battlemask and pulled the plate over her face. Once it was secure and the built-in HUD booted up, she pulled her scarlet cowl over her head. Within moments, her identity was fully concealed.

Rav also stood to bid her farewell. "I'm sorry I didn't give the answer you wanted, Sola. But my decision is final."

Sola nodded, her voice rasping through her helmet's vocoder. "Your clan is the only one that will suffer from that decision, I'm afraid. But I will respect your decision and ensure that Isabet Reau will as well."

Kelborn turned to leave, but Tervho's words called her back.

"Is it true?" Vhonte asked. "Is the Reau-Vizsla Clan really looking to rebuild the Death Watch?"

Kelborn frowned behind her mask. She'd heard the same question posed time and time again. She was growing tired of answering it.

"Isabet Reau is many things," she said. "She is arrogant and devious and dangerous, make no mistake. But she is no terrorist. You have my word."

Rav smirked. "But is your word innocent or ignorant, I wonder? Reau's reputation precedes her, as does yours. Make sure they don't get too similar, Sola."

"My reputation has been stained enough by our alliance," Kelborn growled. She retrieved her spear from its resting place along the wall. "I don't intend for it to be ruined any further."

She bowed her head. "It's been an honor, Clanmaster Bralor. Your presence would be welcome in the south."

"If these old bones can survive the trip, you might yet see me down there," Rav replied. "Farewell, Clanmaster Kelborn."

With a swirl of her flowing cape, Kelborn turned and disappeared from the room. After she had gone, Tervho once again folded her arms and glanced to her sister.

"You think she was telling the truth? About Isabet Reau?"

Rav rubbed at her chin. "Sola'or is a good kid. I trust her to do what's best for her clan. It's possible she allied with the Reau-Vizsla out of simple necessity. If so, she wouldn't care about Isabet Reau's allegiances so long as her people were protected. And I doubt Reau would deign to tell her."

"Ignorance then?"

"Born of desperation," Rav said. "The Kelborns have been put through the grinder over the past decades. They have scars to rival our own, Vhonte. So far we've managed to escape the threat of clan-wide extinction. They weren't so lucky."

"I wonder, though," Tervho murmured, "who Sola will want to recruit next."

"Why?"

Tervho glanced to her sister. "Word is that Reau and Sola both went to Norac with the same recruitment speech."

"And what was his answer?"

"No one knows yet," Tervho said, shifting uneasily. "But it does raise the question: how many other clans will this new coalition bring to their side? We could stand to refuse them. Others aren't in such a fortunate position."

"You worry about them recruiting other less-than-savory figures?"

"The Kelborns are an honorable group and longtime allies of the Bralors," Tervho said. "But what if Sola's little speech sways the Koriithas or the Ash'amurs? We aren't on such good terms with them. And if our worst fears are realized – if this whole thing comes to war – I'm not sure we can stand against them."

"The Bralors have stood fast for over a thousand years. We've had our ups and downs, but we've always endured."

"Nothing lasts forever, _vod_."

Rav snorted. "You're starting to sound like a Skirata. Are you going to get all broody on me too?"

"Not if I can help it. But I didn't get this far by seeing the best in other people. I don't intend to go soft now."

Rav grinned and stood from her chair, leaning on her cane as she hobbled from the room. "There's the sister I know and love."

"So what do we do about Sola?"

"Like I said, she's a good kid. But that doesn't mean she's our friend. Keep her at arm's length, at least until we learn the caliber of Mandalorian that holds her leash."


	13. The Pit

**The Pit, Keldabe Slums**

A name like _The Pit _didn't conjure images of a clean and orderly establishment. A name like _The Pit _didn't suggest a fancy restaurant or respectable trade shop. When the owners had named the dirty, misshapen downtown building, they'd had a very particular image of what they wanted to present to the world.

So when Jay stepped into the old duracrete warehouse that housed The Pit, she was unsurprised to find dirty floors, ominous flickering lights, and an assortment of Keldabe's harshest and dirtiest citizens. Scattered through the chattering crowd were Gammoreans, Zabrak, and Nikto patrons, as well as the slimy Hutt that oversaw the entire operation. Serving droids raced across the viewing floor, carrying drinks in a wild variety of colors; none of which Jay cared to sample. Cheers echoed through the emptied warehouse, loud enough to rumble the floor beneath Jay's feet, and the entire place was hot, stuffy, and smelly.

Fighting arenas were far from uncommon in Keldabe, but The Pit was the city's seediest and most infamous. It catered to Keldabe's dark side, feeding off of Mandalorian obsession with self-perfection through combat. While most fighting arenas in the city were sanctioned and supervised by either Mandalorian or Imperial overseers, The Pit was the exception. Rumor claimed that the owner had tossed the last supervisor into the arena against a starved and enraged Gundark. Tickets had never sold faster.

Fights to the death were commonplace, and law enforcement officers maintained a near-constant patrol through the nearby neighborhood. She'd heard bad stories about this place, whispered in darkened booths in the _Oyu'baat_. It was disappointing – not to mention frightening – to be present here now.

She fought her way through the crowd, past overexcited patrons who were jeering and shouting at the current fighters. The unruly patrons were thrusting their fists in the air, throwing back heavy mugs of _net'ra gal_, or shoving pouches of credit chips at nearby bookies. Twi'lek dancers twisted and shook their bodies on a catwalk above the arena, but the spotlights were focused on the arena at the moment; attractive women showing copious amounts of skin had not drawn the Mandos here tonight.

Jay finally pushed through to the front row, at the very edge of the combat arena. The arena itself was a sunken circle – formerly a grain storage pit, hence the place's name. The raised stands constructed around The Pit offered spectators an unparalleled view of the battle taking place below, but an array of dusty, cracked holomonitors caught the action for anyone confined to the rearmost seats. She leaned against the handrail, brushing away the overly inquisitive trunk of an alien patron next to her, and watched as the fighters grappled on the fighting floor far below.

The first man – a human with a pale, battle-scarred body – was pushing his opponent back with sharp, efficient punches. He was stripped from the waist up, clad only in baggy pants and a thick black face mask that obscured his features. His torso was covered in bruises, cuts, and welts, but his many injuries didn't seem to slow him down in the least.

The pale man's movements were fast and brutal, yet carried a surprising kind of grace as he dodged, parried, and punched. His opponent, a larger Zabrak adorned with Huttese tattoos and a cybernetic eye, was faltering under the relentless flurry of fists and feet. He tried his best to dodge or parry, but his opponent was too quick.

The pale man darted forward and drove his knee into the bigger man's gut, forcing his opponent to double over in pain. With his opponent hobbled, the pale man hopped back and held out his arm, beckoning for something.

One of the arena workers, standing near Jay on the spectator ring, threw him a long durasteel quarterstaff. The pale man easily plucked the weapon out of the air, spun it in his hands, and swung like a grav-ball batter. The quarterstaff connected against the big Zabrak's jaw with an audible _crack_ and the red-skinned alien sprawled into the sand that covered the arena floor.

A roaring cheer went up through The Pit's crowd. The arena announcer called something over the intercom in _Mando'a_. Jay couldn't hear the words over the clamor.

The pale man tossed aside the quarterstaff and knelt next to his opponent. He wrapped a hand around the alien's throat and drove his fist hard into his opponent's forehead. The Zabrak, obviously unconscious, didn't so much as flinch.

The pale man didn't stop. He punched the alien again, then again and again. By the time the arena lights flashed red to signal his victory, his knuckles were stained with blood. Once he saw that he had won, he drew back to his feet and stalked off out of the arena. The crowd cheered as he left and some of the angry patrons threw drinks or food containers at him. He didn't acknowledge any of them.

Jay saw her opening and moved to head downstairs. She knew the fighter's quarters were down there, and she needed to speak to the victorious fighter. She flashed her ID to the bouncer guarding the stairs. He glared at her, but reluctantly let her pass.

The downstairs was almost as crowded as the upper floor. The cramped and dirty duracrete halls were packed with arena attendants, medical technicians, and pit fighters. Jay had to swerve to avoid medics carrying the unconscious Zabrak on a stretcher. The metal beam had shattered the right side of his jaw, his eyes were swelled shut, and three of his cranial horns had been snapped clean off. She grimaced at the man's state, then quickly moved on.

It didn't take long to find her quarry; a steady trail of fresh blood led from the arena door to one of the fighter's quarters. She didn't bother to knock to announcer her arrival; the door was already open.

The pale man was inside, his back turned to her. His mask was still in place, his body splattered with both human and alien blood and scattered with dark, purple-black bruises. Several deep slashes marred his shoulders, arms, and legs, spilling thick trails of blood down his body. His pants were as torn and dirty as any of Keldabe's worst-looking hobos. He was still breathing, but how was a mystery. He looked like he'd been mauled by a rancor.

Jay folded her arms with a deep frown on her face. She watched the pale man unwind bloodstained fighter's tape from around his knuckles and leaned against the doorframe in feigned nonchalance. Eventually she cleared her throat to draw his attention.

The pale man spun, fists raised and ready for another fight. When he saw her, a look of shock lit up his pale blue eyes. Then his shoulders slumped.

"I should have known someone would find me here," he muttered. His voice was muffled only slightly by his face mask.

"Since when do you moonlight as a gladiator?" she said.

"Maybe I got a taste for it after the contract on Telos. I took on a Barabel and almost won. That's an achievement if I've ever heard one."

She scowled. "I'm not joking, Cin."

"Neither am I. Why are you here?"

"I was worried about you. You've been missing for two days."

"You don't need to worry about me."

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"It pays."

She sighed and stepped into the room, eying her partner's state. His knuckles were caked with blood and, from what she could see through his facemask, he had two black eyes. He looked like he could barely stand, let alone go another round in the pit.

She shook her head with an exasperated sigh. "You look like you've been fighting for days."

"It doesn't pay well."

She grabbed his arm and moved him around to face her. "Come here. Let's get you cleaned up."

He reluctantly allowed himself to be led toward a bench set along the wall. She grabbed a towel as she followed. Once he'd settled, she began wiping blood from his shoulders and arms. While she worked, she glared at him.

"You could have told someone what you were doing."

"You would have told me not to do it," he said. "Would have given me a job or donated credits out of pity."

"When have I ever patronized you like that?"

He sighed and stared at his lap. "I… I didn't want you to see me like this. I didn't want any of you to find me."

She stopped her ministrations and knelt in front of him. "Why are you here, Cin?"

He didn't look up. "I needed something to do. I haven't had a contract offer in weeks. I have decent credits in savings, but they won't last forever."

She shook her head. "There's more to it than that and we both know it."

"You're right, as usual. I needed… needed _relief_. I needed to do something to keep my skills sharp. Something that would…"

She quickly caught on. "Something that would make you feel dangerous again."

He nodded, eyes still shamefully fixed on his clasped hands. "Hard to feel like a failure when you're beating someone's face in."

"You aren't a failure, Cin."

Those were the wrong words. He looked up at her now and fire bloomed in his eyes. "Don't try to pull that on me, Jay. Tamai tried already and it didn't work."

He stood, yanking the towel from her hands and cleaning the blood from his chest himself. "You don't know what it's like, Jay. To be trained your whole life to do one thing, then be denied the ability to use your skills."

He shook his head spitefully. "I'm a _bounty hunter_, Jay. It's what I _do_. It's all I know how to do."

"I know—"

"So what do you think happens when someone with such a specific skill set is denied the ability to do what he was meant to do?"

"You can always—"

"No!" he suddenly shouted, throwing the towel to the ground. "I can't just waddle off and do something else! I can't take up painting like Brianna or start farming like Rame. I _hunt. _It's what I was _made for_."

He glared at her. "Imagine if you were a champion distance runner and your legs suddenly disappeared. Can you even picture that? To be robbed of purpose? To lose the _one thing_ you were good at?"

She sighed and took his place on the bench. "Cin… I'm sorry. I know you're going through a rough time right now, but—"

"_Rough_ doesn't begin to describe it," he snarled. "Over the past few months, I've been kidnapped, experimented on, betrayed, manipulated, and now stripped of the one thing that gave me purpose."

"I know," she said. "It's honestly a miracle you're even here after going through so much. But—"

His shoulders slumped. "I… I don't need help, Jay, and I don't need your sympathy. I need a _target_. I need an _objective_. And as long as I'm here, fighting, I have that."

He turned his back to her, unwilling to look her in the eyes. He looked dirty, exhausted, and hurt in more than just the physical sense. There was vulnerability written across his every movement, a fragileness that she'd never seen in her partner. Even after escaping the Facility, he'd been back on his feet and fighting within hours.

She'd never seen him like this, and it broke her heart to watch.

Her next words were slow and measured. "You're… still having nightmares?"

He nodded. "Haven't slept in four days."

"Cin…"

"They're getting worse. I've tried meditation, medication, and all kinds of other treatments. They just won't _stop_."

He returned to his earlier seat on the bench and cradled his head in his hands. "Every time I try to rest, every time I so much as close my eyes…"

"I assume that's another reason you're fighting here? To keep them away?"

"Adrenaline's better than caf any day. Exercise too."

She cocked her head. "What do you see when you dream? You've said you can't sleep, but I don't know why."

He took a deep, shaky breath. "It's… it's not easy to talk about."

It was obvious how uncomfortable it was for her partner to be thinking about this. She knew this was a touchy subject with him – perhaps the touchiest subject of all – and she needed to let him take his time talking. His body was stiff and tense and his hands were shaking until he clasped them tightly in his lap. He squeezed his eyes shut, then began, "The nightmares… they're my first memories."

"Your…" she paused. "I'm assuming this was after the, ah… _accident_?"

"A little. There are flashes of what happened before."

She hesitated, then put a hand on his arm. "Tell me. I can try to help if you let me."

He took another breath. "In the dream… I'm back in the ship. The one that crashed. Everything is… chaos. People screaming, storage crates flying everywhere. Someone – the pilot, maybe – is yelling over the ship intercom, but I can't make out what he's saying over the noise."

He stared down at his hands. They were shaking dangerously, so he tightened them into fists that trembled just as badly. "There's a woman in the seat next to me. My mother, maybe, I don't know. She's panicking like all the rest. She keeps trying to buckle the crash webbing over me, trying to protect me, but the turbulence is too much. She can't secure it."

Jay listened with rapt attention. She had never heard him go into such detail about any of this before. She squeezed his arm, urging him to continue.

He did continue, though it looked like every fiber of his body wanted to stop. His voice was little more than a choked whisper, almost lost amid the muffled roar of the arena crowd above their heads.

"There's an explosion from somewhere in the ship," he said, "and everything starts shaking apart. The bulkhead near my seat tears away. The woman tries to grab on to me, to keep me in the ship. But the wind yanks me out into the air.

"There's this rushing sound, like being caught in a hurricane." He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. "Then nothing."

"That was when Rame and the others found you?"

He nodded, licking his dry and cut lips. "It, um… it wasn't pretty. During the fall, I'd been impaled by three separate pieces of shrapnel."

He pointed to several ropy scars that stretched across his chest and abdomen. "Here, here, and here. Two more on my legs. Rame had to… he had to use a blowtorch to cut the shrapnel away so the others could pull me free. I had been pinned under a piece of the bulkhead."

Jay grimaced, but her partner wasn't done yet. He pointed to a deep scar just below his collar. "I had a foot-long piece of metal embedded into the right atrium of my heart. Rame spent three days removing it."

He now pointed to the back of his head. "And then there was the piece of transparisteel. Punched right through my skull, into my brain. It went straight through the parietal lobe and into the temporal lobe. Almost left me permanently brain damaged."

"Could you put that in layman's terms, please?" Jay said with a weak smile. "It's been a while since my biology lessons at the Academy."

"The speech, emotion, and memory centers of the brain," he explained. "A good portion of both lobes were destroyed. Rame had to call in some favors from the Keldabe medcenter for that one."

Jay shook her head. "How did you survive?"

"A mixture of Rame's medicine, cybernetics, and old-fashioned luck. I heal faster than humans, so most of my brain managed to rebuild the damage before I went completely brain-dead. But Rame thinks that particular wound was what caused the…"

He sighed, shoulders going limp. "The amnesia. The reason I can't remember anything that happened before."

Jay sat with him in silence for a long time. Then she touched his arm again. "What happened next? The story doesn't end there, I'm guessing."

He shook his head. "I was a vegetable for almost six months after the crash. Permanently hooked to life support. Rame and Mia were beginning to wonder if I was ever going to wake up. The cybernetics they put into my brain fixed the worst of the damage, but I just wouldn't wake up."

"But you did," she said. "You wouldn't be sitting here otherwise."

He nodded. "I woke up. But I wasn't… wasn't right."

"What do you mean?"

He shook his head. "The first thing I remember… is this overwhelming feeling of fear. Primal, uncontrollable terror."

He glanced at her, then quickly away again. These were obviously very painful memories. Jay didn't push him and let him work his way through at his own pace.

"Do you know what it's like?" he eventually said, his voice barely a whisper. "To wake up one morning and… and be afraid of _everything_? The bed, the window, the floor… your own reflection…"

He shook his head. "I started screaming early, and of course Rame and Brianna came running to investigate. I didn't know what to do. Hell, I didn't even know who they were. What they were. I didn't even have a concept of what a human was, let alone if it was a threat or not.

"I attacked them. Fight or flight, you know? Only I also couldn't remember how to walk. I didn't succeed at doing anything but flopping around on the floor and screeching at them. They had to handcuff me to the bed to keep me from bashing myself against the door after they left. When that didn't stop the screaming, they had to sedate me."

Jay put a hand to her mouth. "Cin, that's awful."

He shrugged. "I grew out of it. Took months of training, but…"

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Now it's all coming back in my nightmares. The same fear. The same memories."

They sat in silence, listening to the stamping and cheering of the pit crowd on the floor above. After a few moments, Jay reached over and clasped his hand with her own, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"You'll get through this," she said. "You always do."

"And if this is the exception?" he said. He didn't release her hand. "These are more than just simple dreams, Jay. They can be fatal. If I get stuck too long in a particularly bad memory, my brain could be liquefied."

"That won't happen."

"You can't guarantee that."

"No," she agreed. "But I believe you'll pull through."

He snorted derisively. "Belief is like plastic food for a starving man. It looks good, but doesn't help anything."

"Hey," she nudged his shoulder. "You want to get philosophical? I've got a story for you, then."

"Do tell."

"I used to have a commander when I was with the navy. Big guy. Former stormtrooper. He was a real hard-ass. Shouted all the time, always paraded around with all his medals pinned to his chest, forced us to power-wash the TIE fighters at 0300 in the morning. He was an over-the-top patriotic military man save for one thing: he was a devout believer in the Force."

Vhetin glanced at her, obviously surprised. "That religion doesn't get you far in the galaxy anymore."

"I thought the same thing. But this guy was convinced – absolutely convinced – that the Force existed and influenced every aspect of our lives. That it had a plan for us and that all we had to do was listen and that plan would become apparent."

He chuckled. "You're starting to sound like the Handmaiden."

"Let me finish," she gently chided him. "So one day, my squadron came back from a convoy run that had been attacked by pirates. We rescued the convoy's crew, but most of them were broken-down messes. They were traumatized by what the pirates had done.

"This commander was convinced that the Force had drawn the pirates to the convoy for a reason. That the Force had a plan for the convoy pilots, and that's why they were attacked. Basically, that the Force had but them through an ordeal to make them something they wouldn't otherwise be."

"Small comfort for them."

"It must have been," Jay said. "The convoy pilots all applied for naval service within the week. After a month they were assigned as the region's local TIE patrol, defending the trade routes they used to fly themselves. They managed to kill the same pirates that originally attacked them."

She glanced to her partner. "I've never put much stock in the Force, but it was hard to ignore the commander's beliefs. It seemed like more than simple chance. Like it was—"

"Destiny?" her partner supplied.

She nodded. "I can't help but see similarities with your situation. These dreams started when you were trapped in the Whiteclaw Facility, right?"

He nodded.

"Then maybe that's a clue. Maybe these dreams and the Whiteclaw experiments are related. Maybe they were triggered by what happened in that awful place."

She squeezed his hand again. "We both know Whiteclaw didn't go down in flames with the Facility. Maybe that's where you need to start."

"So you're saying…" his pale blue eyes narrowed dangerously, "that if I track down Whiteclaw, the dreams will go away?"

"I'm saying that it might bring you closure."

He fell silent for a time, pondering her words. After a few moments he stood from the bench and returned to his supply locker. He began winding tape back around his knuckles.

"I fight again in a few minutes," he said. "Thanks for visiting, Jay. I'll… think about what you've said."

"You're still fighting?"

"Have to pay the bills somehow," he said. "But do me a favor? Send a call out to Tarron Matele. He's been looking into Whiteclaw for me. If I'm going to do this, I'll need his help."

She nodded. "I'll have him on comms by the end of the day."

"_Vor'e_." He half-turned back to her, his voice quiet and serious. "_Oya_, my friend. I'm… I'm glad you found me here."

She smiled at him and stood from the bench. "_Oya, vod'ika_. Don't get too comfy as a gladiator. You won't be stuck here long."

"I'll hold you to that."

* * *

_Author's Note_: _This scene has been stuck in my head for a while, so I finally decided to get it out. It provides a nice lead-in to the next full _White Snow_ installment, but I think there'll be only or two more chapters posted here before _Resurgence_ gets underway._

_Until next time!_


	14. Greetings, Master!

_Author's Note: This scene is in a weird state. I think it's great and I want to continue the storyline arc it begins, but I'm not the new character it introduces fits well into my story. So I'm going to leave it up to you guys to decide. Read the chapter and let me know if you want more from this new character. If enough people want more, then more will come._

_Enjoy! :D_

* * *

**Downtown Keldabe**

When Vhetin received an emergency comm message from Janada telling him to drop everything, grab Jay, and get to her apartment as quickly as possible, he instantly knew something was off. His sister wasn't much for idle chatter or friendly get-togethers beyond her weekly Skyllian Poker game with other engineers from her work. And she was more than capable of handling herself in virtually every fight he could, so if she was calling for reinforcements now, something terrible must have happened.

Jay was obviously thinking along the same lines. When they met on the block outside Janada's shabby apartment building, she already had her pistol drawn, charged, and loaded with tibanna cartridge. A concerned frown pulled at her features as she threw him a terse greeting, then jerked her head toward the stairs leading inside.

"What do you think happened?"

Vhetin shrugged, a deactivated lightsaber clutched tight in one hand. "Nothing good. My ever-loving sister has made a lot of enemies over the years. The list of things that could be wrong is pretty long by now."

Jay frowned deeper as they began to make their way up the stairs and into the building. "What kind of enemies does a MandalMotors engineer make?"

"You have met this woman, right?" Vhetin scoffed at her. "She's my kriffing sister and even I admit she has the personality of a pissed-off rancor monster."

"You… have a point." Jay drew her pistol into a tight two-handed grip, ready for anything.

The interior of the building was just as run down as the outside, as cluttered and beat-up as a nexu den. There was trash piled up in the corners and a dark stain on the carpet that Vhetin suspected was old and dried-up blood. The stairs were rickety and creaked loudly underfoot whenever he placed weight on them. It was a familiar sight by now, but Vhetin still wondered why his sister preferred to live in such squalor.

He jerked his head to his partner. "Take point. You're lighter than I am. You'll make less noise."

She nodded and crept past him, her lighter frame and softer boots allowing her to traverse the staircase without making as much noise. Her pistol was aimed straight ahead, sweeping over the hallway in search of enemies. When they reached the second floor where Janada's apartment was situated, she pressed herself against the corner and peeked around to watch the hallway beyond.

"It's clear," she breathed. "There don't seem to be signs of a fight. And if Janada was really in trouble, she would definitely have left some damage in her wake."

"Not if Tranyc was caught in the crossfire," Vhetin said. Janada's little sister was the center of her whole world. The engineer — as hotheaded and callous as she was — would die before she put Tranyc in danger. He scowled behind his helmet, his heart sinking more and more with each passing second. If something had happened to them…

"Move up," Jay said, slinking to the other side of the hall. She stuck to the shadows, where her dark armorleather jacket helped her blend in with her surroundings. She was barely visible in the dim light of the shabby hallway, little more than a shadow against a shadow.

Vhetin approached at a more cautious pace, well aware that his heavy armor on the light and creaking wooden floor eliminated any chance for him to be stealthy. If it came to a fight, he would need to distract their opponents so Jay could ambush them from behind.

He raised his fist and ignited the lightsaber clasped in his hand, spilling sapphire light across the dirty hallway. The illumination revealed scrawled graffiti and scratch marks on the walls — the latter probably from a tenant's overexcited strill. As Jay had reported earlier, there were no signs of a fight. Normally that would be a comfort. Now it just made him anxious.

Janada's apartment was at the end of the hall, the door decorated with a poster bearing the Mandalorian Protectors insignia and a MandalMotors sign plastered haphazardly sideways beneath it. In the center of the door was the segmented diamond sigil of Clan Bralor.

"This is it," Vhetin said. He flanked the doorway, holding his lightsaber close to his chest. Jay took the other side of the door, her wide eyes the only thing of her that was clearly visible in the darkness. He nodded to her, sending her a silent query as to her status. When she nodded back, signifying she was ready for the coming battle, he gritted his teeth and reached out to rap his knuckles against the door.

He didn't get the chance to. The door handle rattled and the entryway swung open before his hand could fall. A half-second later Janada stuck her head through the doorway and looked up and down the hall. Her face was smeared with a dark film of oil and grease, but her eyes lit up when she saw the two hunters outside.

"Finally!" she said. "I thought I heard a _jetti__'__kad _crackle to life out here. Come in! Come in! Don't bother wiping your boots."

Vhetin frowned behind his helmet and slowly lowered his lightsaber. "You're… you're not in trouble?"

"With who?"

"Anyone?"

"I dunno." The engineer shrugged, scratching at the _kyrbes _tattoo on her shoulder and leaving a dark smear of grease across her skin. "I try to always be in trouble with _someone _just as a matter of personal pride, but—"

"But you're not under attack?" Jay interrupted, taking a step closer and glancing over the engineer's shoulder, into her apartment. "No one's trying to kill you?"

"Kriff, I hope not." Janada narrowed her eyes. "Why? Did you hear something? Is Kavvon back in town? 'Cause I told that no-good son of a—"

Jay glared at her. "Your comm message didn't paint a very optimistic picture."

"Oh that? I just wanted you two to get down here quick, and I couldn't spend much time on comms." Janada gestured for them to follow her inside. "C'mon. I'll show you why."

Vhetin narrowed his eyes and glanced at his partner, who just shrugged helplessly. His lightsaber deactivated with a hiss as Jay holstered her pistol, her frown not leaving her features. With a confused glance, the two moved to follow Janada inside.

The interior of the engineer's apartment was just as messy and run down as the outside. But whereas the outside was bathed in a coat of filth and decay, Janada's apartment displayed a charming, cluttered kind of chaos. There were stacks of engineering mags strewn across almost every available surface, a holoboard covered in complicated mathematical equations, and a string of thick cables and wires snaking across the floor like a mechanical echo snake. The kitchen was cluttered with equal parts dirty dishes and mechanical devices, and what had been the kitchen table was piled high with all manner of grease-stained parts and tools piled high in durasteel crates marked with Imperial insignias. The apartment windows were thrown open, letting brilliant shafts of morning light pour in and illuminate the clutter. Vhetin faintly heard the heavy, muffled beat of strap music playing from behind a door somewhere — Tranyc was home and safe, then. He breathed a sigh of relief.

The entire apartment had been rearranged since the last time Vhetin had visited. It had always been messy, but never with such organized purpose. Everything in the room was clustered around a large circular power platform in the middle of the _karyai_. This platform pulsed with pale blue light, releasing a dull buzz every time the lights flashed, and was connected to more of the thick bundles of cables and wiring that stretched off to some other part of the complex.

And standing on top of the platform, decorated with all manner of warning labels, disclaimer stickers, and bright splashes of red paint, was a droid.

It was currently powered down, slumped forward like a human that had just been hit upside the head. Its thin arms hung limp at its sides and a glowing power core, visible in the machine's chest, was dim and unresponsive. The two eye-like photoreceptors on the droid's head were dark, and a heavy restraining bolt was welded to its angular chest.

Vhetin stopped short at the sight of the droid, then sighed wearily and turned his gaze to the floor. "Oh no…"

Janada didn't bother to turn to him, but she did point at him over her shoulder. "You shut up. I don't want to hear another word out of you."

"You dragged us down here for this hunk of junk? Let me guess, you think you fixed it again?"

"I _know _I did!" the short woman cried. "I was so stupid before, trying to reroute the power conduits up through the central spinal processing column. It overheated the whole _skarkla _machine before it could power itself on. Stupid mistake, I know. Not to mention the fact that I miscalculated the main core's power output. The core I had wasn't strong enough to power all the subsystems, which meant that—"

"Wait, wait, wait." Jay held up a hand, cutting the engineer off. She gestured to the powered-down droid with a disbelieving scoff. "_This _is what you called us down here for?"

Janada nodded with a wide grin, positively beaming with excitement. "I _did _it! I finally kriffing _did _it!"

"Did what?"

She punched the droid's metal shoulder, causing it to flail slightly before falling back into its original slumped-over position. "I finally managed to repair this bucket of bolts! I've been trying for five bloody years, girl! You know how much work I've put into this? But I finally did it!"

"Last time you thought you _did it_," Vhetin said, making sarcastic air quotes as he spoke, "the thing exploded as soon as you turned it on. If memory serves, the detonation demolished this apartment, blasted you through the kriffing _wall, _and burned off your eyebrows and half your hair."

Janada nudged Jay's arm and muttered, "He only remembers 'cause he had to pay the medical bills. Besides, I looked great with short hair."

Jay took a step away from the droid, eying it up and down. "This thing really exploded?"

"It was a stupid mistake I fixed ages ago," Janada said dismissively. She scooped up a hydrospanner and set to work tightening a plate along the droid's chassis. "I underestimated the power this baby would need to switch on. Ran almost fourteen gigalotts of power through an unshielded central power column in the droid's spine."

"So… what happened? In Basic, please. I don't speak Engineer."

"I overloaded the core and accidentally turned the 'bot into a miniature nuclear bomb."

Jay's eyebrows shot up. "A _nuke_?"

"A _mini-_nuke." Janada tapped one ear. "Gotta learn to listen, Jay."

The huntress quickly took another step away from the droid. "Just what is this thing? And why are you so desperate to fix it?"

"Technically, I'm not actually fixing it, so much as _building _it" Janada said, fiddling with something along the droid's spine. There was a sharp _snap _and a flash of light from the rear of the machine's thick chassis. "I built this baby all my own. Gathered up a bunch of parts from various models and popped them all together in my own custom build. You'll notice the paint job matches my armor scheme. Personal touch, that."

"But _why_?"

Janada emerged around the other side of the droid, tongue caught between her teeth as she pulled out a panel and rooted around inside. "You ever hear of the Czerka Corporation?"

Jay glanced at Vhetin, who sighed and shrugged helplessly. "No. No, I can't say I have."

"Hmph. Not surprised. They were a pretty big deal a couple thousand years ago. Back around the time of the Mandalorian Wars. Now they're a minor weapons and armor contractor for the Empire. They produce some pretty decent projectile-based guns and vibroblades. Old timey stuff, you know?"

"But what does it have to do with this thing?"

"Well," Janada continued as another shower of sparks flew from the droid's torso, "during the Clone Wars, Czerka started to think bigger than small arms and armor. They wanted to recapture the glory days and go back to making big guns and serious hardware. The kind of stuff that could change the course of entire wars.

"You see, back during the Old Republic, Czerka used to be at the forefront of weapon and hardware innovation. Created a bunch of tech used by the Sith and the Mandalorians at the time. Tech that almost crippled the Republic."

She peeked over the droid's shoulder and patted the side of its head affectionately. "Tech like this guy."

"This thing?" Jay echoed. Her tone was short and skeptical. "This thing is a weapon that could have crippled the Republic?"

"Well… no. Not exactly, at least. You see, Czerka had a lot of fun toys, but there was one line that they didn't really market to the public sector. This tech was super-secret, very hush-hush. Only the wealthiest and most powerful underworld figures could buy this tech, and whenever someone did manage to get their hands on it, it always meant things were gonna get fun real quick. You know what I'm talking about, little bro?"

Vhetin folded his arms and leaned against the wall with a sigh. "The Hunter-Killer Assassin Droids. They're an urban legend. A line of nearly indestructible battle droids, so dangerous and programmed so well that their specialty was hunting down and assassinating Jedi Masters and Sith Lords."

"Exactly!"

Jay raised an eyebrow. "That's… impressive."

"Like I said," Vhetin sighed, "it's a myth. No one's ever found one of these HKs, let alone reactivated them. Even Czerka doesn't take credit for them anymore, and they were the ones who supposedly built the things."

He gestured to the droid. "Besides, the Empire's been improving Czerka designs for years with the new IG assassin models. No one cares about these antiques anymore. All those HK units — if they even existed — were probably scrapped for parts centuries ago."

"That's where you're wrong," Janada said with a smug grin. "You see, back when Tran and I were living on Sriiluur, I stumbled across this mechanic working with the Weequay. Used to be big with the Intergalactic Banking Clan before they went nuts and joined the Separatists."

She hopped out from behind the droid and folded her arms across her chest. "This guy said that the Seps went to Czerka specifically while they were gearing up their droid army. Said they wanted the corporation to start producing HKs again. Good ones. Ones that could go toe-to-toe with Jedi and walk away with nary a lightsaber burn."

"That's a tall order."

"And one that Czerka delivered on." Janada's grin grew — if possible — even wider. "You see, Czerka had recently been doing some mining work on Mustafar. And while they were digging through the lava pits and oceans of fire, they found something. Something that proceeded to chew through an entire army of Banking Clan mercenaries and B-Two Battle Droids.

"My contact said that Czerka managed to salvage what they could from the carnage and started producing a brand new line of battle droids, with the secret codename HK-77. They didn't last long, of course, because a few months later the Seps lost the war and Darth Vader ended up killing 'em all. The droids were scrapped, the dig site forgotten, and the Empire never bothered to hunt down the one that had killed so many people on Mustafar."

"So…" Jay mulled over the engineer's words. "If all that's true, then what is this thing?"

"This," Janada said, wiping her hands on her pant legs, "is a prototype. I built it myself, basing it on all the scraps of data I could find on the old HKs. I went way back, all the way to the old line of HK-50s, 60s, and the weird one Czerka called Prototype 47. I mirrored its construction as accurately as I could."

"But _why_?"

"Why else? To keep me and mine safe. To ensure no one messes with the Keldabe branch of Bralors so long as its photoreceptors are functioning. Keldabe's getting more and more dangerous, girl, or didn't you notice? A combat-ready assassin droid could come in handy before too long."

"I think," Vhetin said softly from his position against the wall, "that building your own assassin droid to serve as your personal bodyguard is kind of overkill."

Janada shot him a grin. "We're _Mandalorians_, little bro. Overkill is kind of our thing."

He had to grant her that one.

"But it still doesn't matter," he quickly pointed out. "Even if you got this bucket of bolts functioning again, it's still just a husk. You'd need the processing matrix of one of the original droids for it to function correctly. And I doubt Czerka leaves those just lying around."

Janada pointed to him with a happy laugh. "That's exactly right. Now, normally I would say it's a fool's errand. Even if any processing matrices were still functional, they'd probably be collecting dust in some fat old Imperial's private warehouse of Old Republic relics, right?"

"Right."

Janada fished in her pocket for a moment, then produced a tiny black rectangle of durasteel, plastoid, and delicate electronics. She held it out to the two hunters, then shook it for emphasis with a smug, "_Ha!__"_

"Is…" Vhetin frowned, for once taken aback. "Is that what I think it is?"

"This, my dear deluded little bro," Janada said, cradling her hands around it as if it were a tiny, baby creature, "is the central processing matrix of an Old Republic-era HK assassin droid, from somewhere in the 50s line. I've been tinkering with it, making my own adjustments, and now it's ready to install."

"How did you get it?" Jay said incredulously. "Tech that old must be worth a fortune!"

"It is," Janada said. "Up until about two weeks ago, it was safely locked away inside a Moff's treasure vault. Now it's mine."

Vhetin narrowed his eyes behind his helmet. "And just how did you get it?"

Janada's expression was one of perfect innocence. "Hmm?"

"Don't play dumb, Janada. If this Moff had it locked up in a vault, how do you have it now?"

His sister, who was still staring reverently at the little square of circuitry, waved her hand dismissively. "Oh I saved up a few paychecks and hired the Echani to get it for me."

_"__Les_?" Jay said incredulously. "You asked Les to help you?"

"_Paid _her to help me. Big difference, Jay."

"So you got her to steal it."

Janada scoffed. "Well it wasn't like the kriffing _Moff _was using it for anything important! You should have seen the state it was in when I got it! Dust in every crevice, the whole thing needed new soldering and de-rusting… It's a miracle this little darling still works."

"And now you're going to put it in your droid," Vhetin said, "and activate a centuries-old assassination program?"

"Of course not, dummy. I'm going to use its protocol functions. It can help me around the house."

Jay's mouth fell open. "You have _got_ to be joking."

"Well I'm not just gonna have it sit around and wait for me to be attacked, stupid," Janada said with a roll of her eyes. "If it's gonna be hanging around, it might as well be of some use. Do the dishes once in a while, run a vac over the carpets, I dunno!"

She glared at the two hunters. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to bring our droid friend back to life."

She reached up and pried a panel off the back of the droid's head. With gentle, delicate movements that no doubt rivaled the motions of a trained surgeon, she reached up and slid the processing matrix into the droid's housing. There was a _click_, then everything went silent. Janada hopped back, hands covering her mouth and eyes sparkling in excitement.

Nothing happened.

After a few long moments, Jay glanced at her partner. When he could do nothing but shrug, she looked back to the droid and waited a few more long, expectant moments. When still nothing happened, she glanced at him again and mouthed, _what__'__s wrong?_

The droid remained immobile.

Janada hurried around to the droid's front, running her hands along is chassis and muttering to her self.

"No, no, no," she hissed, double-checking rivets and armored power cables. She rapped her knuckles against the glowing power core — still dim and dull — and snapped, "Come _on! _I did everything right!"

Nothing.

"Come on!" Janada shouted. "I did _everything_ right! Any more accurate and I'd have been building you straight out of a kriffing _manual!__"_

With a shout, the short woman reached up and punched the droid square in its blocky face, sending its neck stretching awkwardly off to one side. There was a creak from somewhere inside the housing and a burst of sparks danced from its neck. The power core remained dark.

Then, something miraculous happened.

The core flickered. The light flashed, almost too fast to see, then pulsed once with a powerful glow. Then again. The droid's fingers twitched. A dull amber light warmed its angular photoreceptors. A dry, rusty creak sounded from somewhere deep in the droid's chassis and the neck slowly straightened. The droid stood to its full height, no longer slumped over like a drunk man at the _Oyu__'__baat._

There was a dull buzz from its vocal capacitors. Then, with a low whine, its speech systems began to spin up. The droid began to talk.

"*_bzzt_* D-d-dec… Declara_-a-a__…_"

The droid twitched again. Then something big exploded and sparks flew through the air. Jay hopped back, shielding her face from the flash as smoke filled the room. Vhetin grimaced and waved a hand in front of him, setting his helmet's scanners to maximum to cut through the acrid smog.

Two angular photorceptors suddenly sprang to life with a malevolent hum, glowing through the thick smoke with a baleful amber glow. There was another quick buzz, then the droid spoke clearly and legibly for the first time.

"Declaration: something does *_bzzt_* not feel right. My chassis is not responding to commands."

Janada coughed as the smoke finally began to clear. "Oh, right. The restraining bolt."

She darted forward with a welder, striking hard and fast as if she were in combat. One stab and a flash of sparks of later, the droid twitched and buzzed again. It suddenly went limp, like power had died, then straighted and flexed its arms.

"Ahh," it said with a very human-sounding sigh. "That is _much _better."

The photorceptors wandered up to look at the three humans standing before it. Then it twitched slightly and said, "Confusion: This is very different from my last recorded memory report. Accessing memory banks and programming signals. Running preliminary diagnostics…"

There was a deep buzz as the droid stared off into space. Then it twitched one final time and turned back to them. It looked at Janada in particular, then held one hand before its "stomach" and bowed at the waist.

"Diagnostics complete. Greeting: Hello, Master! I am HK Two-hundred and twenty-two, assassin droid, and personal assistant to Janada Umaan Bralor. I am programmed to encourage etiquette, protocol, and interspecies relations, and am fluent in over eight million forms of communication including but not limited to Basic, Huttese, Rodese, Twi'leki, Shriiwook…"

"A protocol droid?" Jay said under her breath. "I think Janada might have mixed up her processing cards."

The droid clearly heard her. It instantly trailed off from its list of functions, straightened, and linked its metallic hands behind its back. Vhetin couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw the light in its photoreceptors pulse angrily.

"Clarification," the droid said. "I have extensive programming in etiquette and protocol, meant to facilitate infiltration missions and covert analysis of enemy targets. However, my primary function has always been the enactment of advanced assassination techniques, covert infiltrations, and the premeditated slaughter of offensive fleshy meatbags like yourself. I am also skilled in the art of… cooking?"

Another twitch and a confused spray of sparks.

Jay took a step back, eyes wide at the threat buried in the cheerful robotic tone. "Right… Janada, _please _don't tell me you're going to give that thing a gun."

It shook its head, the motion accompanied by a whir of buzzing servomotors. "Apology: it seems my central programming unit has been heavily modified since it was last accessed. And my internal chronometer reports high levels of data corruption since my last activation some fifteen hundred years ago. I will devote more processing power to returning to full operational status."

It bowed again, this time directing the motion specifically toward Janada. "Reassurance: I will nevertheless serve you with the utmost loyalty and discretion, Master. It is a very great pleasure to meet you!"

Janada clapped her hands in delight. "_Ori__'__kandosii!_ I _knew _it was the power core! All I had to do was find one with a big enough output signature!"

HK turned to her and cocked its head to one side. "Interrogative: Am I to understand that you are responsible for my reactivation, Mistress Bralor? That you are… my Maker?"

The engineer nodded proudly. "Built you from scratch, buddy. And boy was it worth every credit."

The droid slowly looked down to survey its new black-red chassis, holding out both arms and slowly clenching its hands into fists. When it spoke again, something akin to wonder had invaded its vocal processors.

"This work is… superb! I have never encountered such a well-designed chassis before. At least not one created by the inefficient, stubby little hands of a human meatbag!"

Jay frowned. "What about your original body? Your original creators?"

"Clarification: My original place of creation was in a secret Czerka laboratory. I was designed, created, and programmed by droidfellows. There were no squishy organic parts to — how do you humans say it — _gum up the works. _Any assassin droid worthy of note is constructed in such a way. You meatbags lack the… _elegance _to create a perfect engine of carnage and destruction such as myself._"_

Jay let out a long breath. "So it's homicidal _and _an asshole. You should get along fine, Janada."

"I _know_, right?! This is the best day _ever_!"

Janada looked over her shoulder and shouted, "Tran! Tran, get out here quick! Come meet your new uncle!"

_"__Slana'pir, shebs'kov!" _came the muffled response from behind Tranyc's door.

Janada turned back, still grinning that seemingly unstoppable grin. "She'll warm up to it eventually."

"Query: If my Mistress wishes for a third party to join us," the HK said, "I could easily blast down the door and drag them into your presence. Permission to set prejudice to maximum?"

"As fun as that would be to watch," Janada said, tapping her chin, "I'm gonna pass."

She clapped her hands. "Kriff, I can't wait to get all this software updated and see just what our friend really has cooking under the hood. Oh, but before I do…"

She waved her hands until the HK unit swiveled to face her once more.

"Listen to me very carefully," Janada said, speaking slowly as if to a small child. "You are not to kill anyone in this room. Under no circumstances are you to harm myself, my sister, or Cin and Jay. Understand?"

"Disappointed Acknowledgment: I understand, Mistress. No one beneath this roof will come to harm so long as I am active. Droid's honor."

"Good. Now apologize to Jay for threatening to kill her earlier."

The HK obediently shuffled around to face Jay and hung its head in shame — or at least as near as a droid could get. "Morose Declaration: I apologize for threatening to kill the skinny female meatbag."

It straightened and turned back to Janada with a whir of servomotors. "Was that sufficient?"

The engineer was still watching expectantly. "…and? Was there anything else you wanted to add?"

The droid was still, processing for a few moments. Then it twitched and said, "Oh!"

It turned back to Jay and folded its hands in front of itself, leaning forward like a doting grandmother.

"Blatant Lie: It will not happen again."

Vhetin burst out laughing while Jay turned away and put a hand to her forehead. "I must be dreaming," she murmured. "I must be. There is no way in hell that she's got something like this at her disposal. Cin, you do realize that we're both going to be dead before the end of the week, right?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Janada said with an admonishing frown at the other woman. "But it _does _mean that you two aren't going to be skipping out on poker night any more. Isn't that right, HK?"

The lanky black-red droid nodded with a buzz. "I am programmed to facilitate my Mistress' every demand. If she wishes for more meatbags to be present at social gatherings, it is my duty to ensure they attend. Query: Must the new guests be breathing when they arrive, or are respiratory functions a low-priority variable?"

Vhetin and Jay groaned in unison. Meanwhile, Janada took her droid's arm and led it out of the room.

"Come on, Triple-Two," she said with a grin. "Let's find a HoloNet relay and hook you in for an update. We have a lot to catch you up on."


	15. A Matter of Trust

**Offices of the ****_Mand_****_'alor_****, MandalMotors Complex**

Someone had been shouting outside for the last five minutes. The roar of angry voices was muffled behind several heavy blast doors, but were still clearly audible. Such occurrences were far from uncommon these days, so _Mand__'alor _Fenn Shysa didn't pay it any mind. He glanced up from time to time when he managed to pick out the odd word — a _di__'kut_ here or a _chakaar_ there — then sniffed and returned to his paperwork.

It was only when blaster shots snapped in the antechamber that he truly took interest. His trusty longsword was well within reach, but he didn't make a grab for it. He just set aside his stylus and waited expectantly for his overeager visitor to present himself. A fight that rowdy could only mean someone wanted to speak to him.

_Nothin__' like a nice, civilized discussion_, he thought. _'Specially this early in the morn._

Seconds later the blast doors sheathed open and Norac Benz stalked through in a storm of beads, leather, and bad attitude. His armor's chest plates were smoking in three different places, but he didn't look remotely wounded. Tobbi Dala was right behind, holding the smoking pistol that had no doubt loosed the offending shots. He had a freshly-forming bruise on one eye and a bloody nose.

"You," Norac grunted, coming to a halt in front of Shysa's desk. He tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his pants. A scowl pulled at his features, his ice-blue eyes narrowed to slits. "I need to talk to you."

Dala stopped just behind him and trained his pistol on the back of Benz's head. "You take one step further and I'll drop you where you stand, Berserker."

Shysa gestured to his deputy. His voice was as calm as it always was. "Stand down, Tobbi. If Clanmaster Benz here wants t'make trouble, I'm sure I can handle it."

He folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "Besides," he said calmly. "He's already in enough bloody trouble. Not wise to go lookin' for more."

"I'm not here to make trouble," Benz growled. His tone suggested otherwise. "I'm here to give you my demands."

A single eyebrow quirked up. "That so? An' just what're you demandin'?"

"Restoration," Benz threw himself into one of the chairs opposite Shysa's desk without ceremony, settling himself spread-eagled with his hands folded over his belt buckle. "I want my clan's rights restored."

"Admirable," Shysa said. "But why would I wanna do that? I took those rights for a reason, lad. A _very _good reason. You disobeyed a direct order from _te Mand__'alor_. You broke the Codex an' broke the _Resol__'nare_. It's only 'cause I like you that I didn't kill you on the spot."

"Far as I'm concerned," Dala grumbled, "you and your ilk are no better than the Death Watch."

Norac spat, pointedly ignoring the bald-head deputy. "I've never recognized your rule, Shysa. Or the rule of the Codex for that matter. That's the whole reason I took my people into the mountains in the first place; to get away from the goody-goody toadies you call followers."

"Insulting your Mandalore is not a good way to argue your case, Benz," Dala said. He hadn't holstered his pistol. "State your business or get out."

Benz moved to put his feet up on the desk, then seemed to think better of it. He instead cocked himself to one side and threw one leg over the armrest of his chair. "I… admit that recent events have stressed my temper. I made decisions that… I probably shouldn't have. Stupid decisions. Decisions that got people killed."

His eyes held Shysa's with a desperate insistence. Shysa found himself unable to look away, forced to hear out the scruffy frontiersman.

"I'm a proud _Mando__'ad_, Fenn," Benz said. "And it takes a lot for me to admit when I'm wrong. You of all people can sympathize with that, I'm sure. You've made a lot of tough decisions during your years in office. Yet you haven't apologized for them. Not once."

"Aye," Shysa honestly admitted. "An' I'm impressed by your candor. Truly. But you still haven't told me why I should restore yer Clan's honor."

"I know something," Benz growled. "Something that'll be worth a lot to you."

"Mighty sure of yourself," Dala said. His pistol still hadn't lowered, despite the order for him to stand down.

Shysa, however, didn't interrupt. He just stared intently, leaning forward and folding his hands under his chin. There was something in Norac's voice, a strong sense of certainty that he didn't like. Whatever it was the Clanmaster knew, he also knew it was important.

Unsurprisingly, Benz ignored Dala's quips. He held Shysa's gaze, intent on getting his point across. When Shysa gestured for him to continue, he cocked his head and grunted, "I had a visitor not long ago. A mutual friend of ours. Isabet Reau."

The Clanmaster's words made even Dala fall silent. The deputy ever-so-slowly holstered his weapon and folded his arms, listening intently. Benz glanced at him with a small, triumphant smirk before continuing his tale.

"She and Sola Kelborn managed to track me down a few weeks after I returned from the jungles. Had a very interesting proposition for me. Fancy talk about _alliances_ and _unification_."

Shysa nodded. "I've heard similar reports. Kelborn jus' got back from givin' the Bralors the same talk. The two have been recruitin' all over the continent, to little apparent avail. What makes yer talk so special?"

"Because they didn't offer their help for free. They suggested a trade: information for alliance. Said they would push to have my clan reinstated. A full pardon for everything that happened down in the _Werda Kurs._"

He narrowed his eyes. "We both know what information she wanted."

"The Basilisks," Shysa sighed. He sat back in his chair and stroked his chin with a quiet, weary curse. "Of course… Isabet wants to know what has us so interested in the jungles. Can't say as I'm surprised. What'd you tell her?"

"Nothing," Benz replied. "Not yet. Isabet claimed that with the Reau-Vizsla supporting me I could make a push for Clan restoration. Her argument was intriguing, but not convincing. I told her I'd think on it."

"And then you came to me," Shysa said with a wry smile, "hoping I could make you a better offer."

"Smarter than you look, _Mand__'alor._" Benz cocked his head. "Way I figure it, I've brought you valuable information. Potentially Shysa-saving information. That warrants a reward of the same value."

Shysa glanced to his deputy. The ever-scowling Dala shook his head, obviously unimpressed with the offer. But Fenn wasn't discounting the information just yet. He gestured to Benz with two fingers, a curious frown on his chiseled face.

"So you think that by tellin' me Isabet's after state secrets, I'll restore your Clan o' rebels to a place of honor?" He shook his head. "Sorry lad, but that's just not enough t'barter with. If I'm gonna restore your clan, I'm gonna need more'n that."

Benz scowled darkly and both his hands clenched into tight fists. "_More_? I just brought you intel that a woman on your high-and-mightiest watchlist wants your toys. And you want _more_?"

"More," Shysa repeated forcefully. "The fact is, lad, that you and yours are dangerous. Potentially just as dangerous as our mutual friend Isabet. Your lack of respect for your own people is something I won't tolerate any longer."

Benz narrowed his cold eyes, but said nothing.

"So I want a promise," Shysa continued. "Swear on the Force, on _te Manda, _or on the Old Gods. Whatever you want, I don't care. But I want you to swear that you'll declare formal support and dedication to _te Mand__'alor_ from this point on. No more renegade adventures. No more livin' on your own in the jungles. Commit yourself to unity with your _vode_ and your clan will have its honor back."

Benz scowled deeper. "So you want me to choose between an alliance with you or an alliance with Reau and Kelborn?"

"Basically."

"Why the hell would I want to do that? I'm lookin' to put my people back in their rightful place, not pick sides in whatever scrap you're all gearing up for."

"You're mistaken," Shysa said. "I'm tryin' to _prevent _a scrap. I can't speak fer Reau or her new Kelborn buddies, but I'm pretty sure we're the good guys in this scenario."

"That remains to be seen." Benz sniffed, rubbing at the dusting of stubble on his chin. "I don't like this. Any of it."

"Then you're gonna like what comes next even less." Shysa sat back and put his own feet up on his desk, mirroring the motion Benz had decided against earlier. "'Cause I'm not done. I want you to show more loyalty to your people, but I don't want you to do it in public. Keep scowlin' and growlin' as much as you want. Stay up in the mountains and only come out when the Protectors get up and runnin'. Live as you want to live.

"But before that happens," the towheaded man continued, "I want you to go back to our Isabet. And accept her offer."

"What?" Benz said.

"_What_?" Dala echoed.

"You heard," Shysa said. "I want you to accept Reau's proposal. Tell her about the Basilisks. Join the Coalition. Serve them as loyally or disloyally as you wish."

Benz's eyes slowly widened as understanding dawned. "You want a man on the inside. A mole, peeping in on Isabet's plans."

"There's only so much a man can learn by watchin' from the outside," Shysa said. "No matter how carefully he watches. I want you to join her alliance and report to me on her actions. I wanna know her dealings, her allies, and — most importantly — her plans. I know she's behind the risin' tide of discontent that's been sweepin' through Keldabe an' I need plans in place in case she decides to pull somethin'. We don' need another Caranthyr runnin' about and claimin' to spearhead a new Death Watch movement."

"I could give two shits about the Death Watch," Benz rasped, "or the True Mandalorians. Gave up on 'em both almost two decades ago. Why should I play sides in your little dejarik game now?"

"Because you're a shit liar. Because you _do _care. You wouldn't have kriffed things up so royally in the jungle otherwise. You love yer people as much as the next Mando. An' you know, deep down, that your interests and the interests of Isabet Reau and her Coalition are not compatible. Whatever she has planned for this nation, it's not good for you, me, or anyone else. Death Watch never is."

"My concerns lie a long way away from your shithole of a city, Shysa." Benz's voice was harsh and uncompromising. He was stubborn, and it was a trait Shysa both respected and abhorred. "Life up in the mountains is mighty different than this cushy city living. We care about defending our borders from the kalo wolves, clearing land and lumber for farmland, and making damn sure none of you sanctimonious pricks rope us into your war of ideology; a war, might I add, that's claimed the lives of more Mandos than any conflict in the last millennium."

He leaned closer. "I don't care about you, Fenn. You can pretend I do all you like. But I don't care about you, your thug of a deputy, your _ori__'utreekov_ followers or the shits that sneak around in the shadows opposing them. My concerns lie with _my _people. _My _clan._ My _followers. And if you want me to betray their interests in favor of yours, you're sadly mistaken."

He stood from his chair and adjusted the long coat that was draped over his armor. "This may come as a shock to you, _Mandalore_, but I'm a warrior. And sneaking around playing double agent for _any _faction ain't my way. So if the best you can offer in return for my services is a job as your chief lapdog, then you can go fuck yourself."

He turned and stalked past Dala. He paused at the deputy's side, leaning close and hissing, "And you can go fuck yourself too."

Shysa let him go, watching intently and not bothering to rise from his desk. It was only when the leather-clad man reached the door that he spoke.

"You want more?" he called. "I can give you more."

Benz stopped. He didn't turn around. Shysa took that as leave to continue. He leaned forward and folded his hands, watching the back of Norac's head intently.

"I can give you more," Shysa continued. "You say you want to protect your people. Make 'em less reliant on us city folk. I can make that happen."

Benz's head tilted ever-so-slightly back toward him. "How?"

"One word: Basilisks."

The room was filled with shocked silence. Even Dala, who always looked ready to kick up a storm, could find nothing to say.

The Berserker Clanmaster finally turned, head cocked to a curious angle. "We have Basilisks. Salvaged them from the forests, just like your men take them from the jungle."

Shysa let out a dismissive snort and waved a hand. "A bunch of shoddy, rag-tag hunks of junk that can barely serve as tractors, let alone war droids. Tell me, have you managed to get them to walk yet? Or are you still strugglin' to turn on their photoreceptors?"

"Mind your own business." The terse note in his voice suggested it was a sensitive subject. "Point is, we got 'em. Don't need your charity."

"It's not charity," Shysa said. "When we get _our_ jungle Basilisks online, we won't be able to parade 'em around the streets. We'll need to use 'em covertly, out of sight of Reau, the Imperials, or any other unfriendly eyes that may be watchin'. That means all the trustworthy folk are out of the runnin'. Too popular with the people, you see."

He cocked his head. "You and yours are proud folk and good soldiers. And I'd feel much safer puttin' those droids in the hands of Mandos who could use 'em to their full potential and get away with it."

Benz's frown deepened. "You want to put me in charge of those things? After everything I've done?"

"I might," Shysa said. "Maybe. If you take the deal and work as my main man inside the Coalition. Consider your service with Isabet Reau an audition. Stay under her radar and prove you can maneuver without drawing attention to yourself and those Basilisks will be yours — so long as they remain in service to _te Mand__'alor, _of course."

Benz narrowed his eyes, then glanced at Dala as if looking for confirmation that it was all a trick. Then he slowly took a step back into the room. Then another. A few more, and he cautiously slid into the seat across from Shysa once more.

"Keep talking."

* * *

Twenty minutes later, as the door slammed shut, Dala turned to Shysa and folded his gauntleted arms across his chest. His craggy face was scowling deeper than usual.

"You sure this is a good idea?" the deputy growled. "Benz is dangerous. Maybe just as dangerous as Reau and her ilk. Giving him Basilisk droids is a kriff-up in the making."

"I know exactly how dangerous Norac Benz is," Shysa replied, returning to his paperwork. "That's why I made him this deal. The damage he could do to Reau and her Coalition is a boon we can't afford to overlook."

"He'll turn against you. And armed with Basilisks if you get your way."

"Benz knows his clan faces annihilation if he tries," Shysa said with a smile. "The majority of _Mando__'ade _planet wide still live according to the Codex. And you can't rise up in rebellion against Mandalore — and therefore the Codex — with no consequences. If he tries, he risks a civil war just as devastating as the war with the Death Watch."

Dala's voice carried a tone of disbelief. "You think you can trust him to play nice? To take a veritable army's worth of war droids and play by your rules?"

"Ol' Tobbi," Shysa said with a chuckle. "Norac Benz is cut from a different cloth than you or me. He's an old-fashioned Mando. Had he been born during the Old Republic, he would have made a damn good Neo-Crusader. That's not necessarily a compliment."

"Then why are you following this crazy plan?"

"Because it also means," Shysa said, "that when it comes to Basilisks, there's no one I trust more."


End file.
